I preface this piece of writing with the idea that this first section, was not written as erotica. It was written a few years ago as a drill on the senses. Also, themes of (entirely fictional) noncon at first, if that's a trigger, stay away please, again its not overtly sexual in this passage but it is (more or less) kidnap. I'm aware that it's not the most polished or arousing piece. It is however a prelude (albert a short one) to something that can be considered erotica. So just hold your horses, and judge me none to harshly, it is not an accurate display of my 'today' skills, just a bouncing board.
Darkness seemed to enrobe me, banishing me to the far beyond cage of desperation, of fear. Where the hell was I, how’d I get here, who the hell am ‘I’. The questions span around in my mind, not even allowing me to pause long enough to consider them let alone compile some vagaries of an answer. How is it even possible that I didn’t know my own name, the most basic form of just being?
It could have been head trauma, drugs. Except it couldn’t have been trauma, there wasn’t so much as a twinge of pain originating from my head to speak of, just the heavy ache building in all my muscles. Of course the ache was coming from the position I’d been contorted into: wrists bound tightly to my ankles, forcing my back painfully vertical above my kneeling thighs and calves. The ropes they’d used to bind me were obviously some form of natural fibre; they broke and dug into my skin leaving below them dark burning ligature marks where my skin should be.
In reality the stinging, biting sensation of the rope breaking into the wound were by far the least of my problems, but what else was there I could possibly think about other than the erosion of flesh. What do you think about when your first thoughts came but five minutes ago, or so you think because how could I tell the passage of time in the complete darkness that filled my retinas? Had I done something to deserve this, something I couldn’t remember that warranted this hell? What is even hideous enough to ever deserve this?
My mind never got to ponder the question, instead abruptly cut off by the foot falls that echoed in the semi distance. Obviously the room had to be fairly large for me to be able to hear those distant steps. The air, now I took the moment to notice, was cool but musty in scent, like a basement in the early morning, or well. I could be anywhere, I didn’t have to be in my village or street so this might be the middle of the day for all I knew. The steps were consistent, light on the ground, he was obviously confident in the complete blackness. I say he, I didn’t know. But you had to make some assumptions didn’t you because otherwise thought at all would be a complete impossibility not that we were far off of that now but you know, grasp onto what you can and just don’t let go for anything.
As the harrowing steps grew closer and slower my heart pounded with relentless speed and vigour, it felt as if it wanted to escape my chest or at the very least bruise my sternum and ribs black and blue. Even my lungs starting pulling in the cool yet stale air faster than they should, expelling it with a similar urgency. I focused myself on not hyperventilating, steadying myself and trying to remember the slowly pull in air and push it out with the same sympathy towards my over worked diaphragm. It was a distraction, a small petty thing that I could bring into bright clarity in my mind, something I could think about, the individual muscle groups moving in a perfect symphony of contractions, natural reflexes I’d started to control for myself. It was something tangible that I could think about that didn’t make me shudder with utter terror.
So I’d still be lying if I that I was distracted completely by the monotony of inhaling, because that wasn’t possible. Niggling in the back of my mind the steps were gliding closer, the sounds appeared to be circling me stuck in the back of my thoughts. I yanked at my wrists, wanting to motion myself away from the danger. Obviously in my lack of thinking I’d forgotten that jerking bound, achy, skinless limbs was a short road from agony, I didn’t actually move anywhere just inflicted a rough burning sensation, letting more of the rope break off into the wound where it could stab like 100 needles. I felt helpless, I’m sure I looked it. Pitiful, fighting the urge to writhe more until I couldn’t even begin to contemplate how to describe those sensations, was that how I looked? Was this who I was, a girl so used to being helpless? Obviously physically I wasn’t strong; my body ached from even holding itself up. Endurance was a word never uttered to the muscles that let flumes of lactic acid into my blood stream, making any thoughts I could piece together onto little more than a clouded mess of distorted images.
The endless circles around me drew yet closer, tighter in circumference. I felt the disturbed air brush across my cheeks, tempting those fine little hairs to stand straight to attention. The result was a shudder that seemed to shake my spine roughly, leaving my wrists a twitching mess, I felt a little trickle of blood work its way down to my fingers. I couldn’t help the small yelp that crossed my lips, the instant and complete sealing of my lips that came afterwards or the burning on my cheeks that lingered there. My muscles tensed up, ready to fight despite having absolutely no capacity to do so. My whole reflexive reaction wouldn’t prepare me for whatever it was that happened afterwards.
I closed my eyes tight shut, as his warm, damp breath brushed my left earlobe. My muscles were shaking violently even in the bonds that held me; I was physically terrified of him as his voice which was slow where he carefully pronounced each word filled my head. “If you want to keep breathing.” He paused; you could hear the amusement building his voice. “You’ll stay still and shut the hell up.” The sheer vibrating sound was blood curdling, not by tone. It was so soft and elegant that threats should realistically never come out in that voice.
I held myself still despite the profound urge to jerk backwards or whimper at his words, the desire to just turn and run away that coursed my system, I let the idea that I wasn’t entirely alone in the darkness consume me whole. A small shining light that lit the room. So I didn’t want to have company if that meant this scary madness, his company wasn’t the best in the world but something and that would do. I allowed my breathing to return to a steady rise and fall rhythm trying my upmost to forget the surveying gaze that I knew was cast over my useless form, and frankly it wasn’t working for me at all.
I bit the inside of my cheek, tasting the metallic blood that blossomed there, all to fend off a shudder that wanted to break my unsigned covenant with him, to wind and twist the long path down my spine. His fingers had dotted a careful line across the peaks of my shoulders, returning to caress along it much like a surgeon marks his cut with pen before taking the scalpel to it. In short order the skin behind his finger sprung up a hundred raised pimples. Despite my lip biting defence it still took every single inch of my will not to scream up, not to struggle and twist in my ropes for freedom. The line he’d traced felt like fire that had burnt every hair off my skin and still threatened to cause much more grievous injuries to my exposed flesh. Was this some kind of twisted test of his to see if you can get the frozen girl to cry with little more than a light little touch?
It gave me something to hold onto in the darkness, his softly spoken order. So I didn’t have a name, a memory or even a hint at who I might have been but with his words I had some kind of purpose, to make not a single sound nor movement.
Sans Clair de Lune (Without Moonlight)
Darkness seemed to enrobe me, banishing me to the far beyond cage of desperation, of fear. Where the hell was I, how’d I get here, who the hell am ‘I’. The questions span around in my mind, not even allowing me to pause long enough to consider them let alone compile some vagaries of an answer. How is it even possible that I didn’t know my own name, the most basic form of just being?
It could have been head trauma, drugs. Except it couldn’t have been trauma, there wasn’t so much as a twinge of pain originating from my head to speak of, just the heavy ache building in all my muscles. Of course the ache was coming from the position I’d been contorted into: wrists bound tightly to my ankles, forcing my back painfully vertical above my kneeling thighs and calves. The ropes they’d used to bind me were obviously some form of natural fibre; they broke and dug into my skin leaving below them dark burning ligature marks where my skin should be.
In reality the stinging, biting sensation of the rope breaking into the wound were by far the least of my problems, but what else was there I could possibly think about other than the erosion of flesh. What do you think about when your first thoughts came but five minutes ago, or so you think because how could I tell the passage of time in the complete darkness that filled my retinas? Had I done something to deserve this, something I couldn’t remember that warranted this hell? What is even hideous enough to ever deserve this?
My mind never got to ponder the question, instead abruptly cut off by the foot falls that echoed in the semi distance. Obviously the room had to be fairly large for me to be able to hear those distant steps. The air, now I took the moment to notice, was cool but musty in scent, like a basement in the early morning, or well. I could be anywhere, I didn’t have to be in my village or street so this might be the middle of the day for all I knew. The steps were consistent, light on the ground, he was obviously confident in the complete blackness. I say he, I didn’t know. But you had to make some assumptions didn’t you because otherwise thought at all would be a complete impossibility not that we were far off of that now but you know, grasp onto what you can and just don’t let go for anything.
As the harrowing steps grew closer and slower my heart pounded with relentless speed and vigour, it felt as if it wanted to escape my chest or at the very least bruise my sternum and ribs black and blue. Even my lungs starting pulling in the cool yet stale air faster than they should, expelling it with a similar urgency. I focused myself on not hyperventilating, steadying myself and trying to remember the slowly pull in air and push it out with the same sympathy towards my over worked diaphragm. It was a distraction, a small petty thing that I could bring into bright clarity in my mind, something I could think about, the individual muscle groups moving in a perfect symphony of contractions, natural reflexes I’d started to control for myself. It was something tangible that I could think about that didn’t make me shudder with utter terror.
So I’d still be lying if I that I was distracted completely by the monotony of inhaling, because that wasn’t possible. Niggling in the back of my mind the steps were gliding closer, the sounds appeared to be circling me stuck in the back of my thoughts. I yanked at my wrists, wanting to motion myself away from the danger. Obviously in my lack of thinking I’d forgotten that jerking bound, achy, skinless limbs was a short road from agony, I didn’t actually move anywhere just inflicted a rough burning sensation, letting more of the rope break off into the wound where it could stab like 100 needles. I felt helpless, I’m sure I looked it. Pitiful, fighting the urge to writhe more until I couldn’t even begin to contemplate how to describe those sensations, was that how I looked? Was this who I was, a girl so used to being helpless? Obviously physically I wasn’t strong; my body ached from even holding itself up. Endurance was a word never uttered to the muscles that let flumes of lactic acid into my blood stream, making any thoughts I could piece together onto little more than a clouded mess of distorted images.
The endless circles around me drew yet closer, tighter in circumference. I felt the disturbed air brush across my cheeks, tempting those fine little hairs to stand straight to attention. The result was a shudder that seemed to shake my spine roughly, leaving my wrists a twitching mess, I felt a little trickle of blood work its way down to my fingers. I couldn’t help the small yelp that crossed my lips, the instant and complete sealing of my lips that came afterwards or the burning on my cheeks that lingered there. My muscles tensed up, ready to fight despite having absolutely no capacity to do so. My whole reflexive reaction wouldn’t prepare me for whatever it was that happened afterwards.
I closed my eyes tight shut, as his warm, damp breath brushed my left earlobe. My muscles were shaking violently even in the bonds that held me; I was physically terrified of him as his voice which was slow where he carefully pronounced each word filled my head. “If you want to keep breathing.” He paused; you could hear the amusement building his voice. “You’ll stay still and shut the hell up.” The sheer vibrating sound was blood curdling, not by tone. It was so soft and elegant that threats should realistically never come out in that voice.
I held myself still despite the profound urge to jerk backwards or whimper at his words, the desire to just turn and run away that coursed my system, I let the idea that I wasn’t entirely alone in the darkness consume me whole. A small shining light that lit the room. So I didn’t want to have company if that meant this scary madness, his company wasn’t the best in the world but something and that would do. I allowed my breathing to return to a steady rise and fall rhythm trying my upmost to forget the surveying gaze that I knew was cast over my useless form, and frankly it wasn’t working for me at all.
I bit the inside of my cheek, tasting the metallic blood that blossomed there, all to fend off a shudder that wanted to break my unsigned covenant with him, to wind and twist the long path down my spine. His fingers had dotted a careful line across the peaks of my shoulders, returning to caress along it much like a surgeon marks his cut with pen before taking the scalpel to it. In short order the skin behind his finger sprung up a hundred raised pimples. Despite my lip biting defence it still took every single inch of my will not to scream up, not to struggle and twist in my ropes for freedom. The line he’d traced felt like fire that had burnt every hair off my skin and still threatened to cause much more grievous injuries to my exposed flesh. Was this some kind of twisted test of his to see if you can get the frozen girl to cry with little more than a light little touch?
It gave me something to hold onto in the darkness, his softly spoken order. So I didn’t have a name, a memory or even a hint at who I might have been but with his words I had some kind of purpose, to make not a single sound nor movement.
