Lunch, a restless stroll and another douche and it’s time for client 3, a returning customer from my last trip. He enters the apartment and I greet him with a veiled unease. He has a large backpack with him, which I note with a degree of concern. The last time had not been particularly pleasant, I begin to recall. He had been upfront about his desires for kink; specifically restraint and spanking me, and outlined them in his prior messages. These are things I generally avoid, and in the session had blurred into the edge of things that made me uncomfortable. When he reached out to lock a booking in ahead of my trip I’d acquiesced, distanced from the memories and eager for the money. I remembered how he was physically: slight, with delicate limbs and hands which seemed unthreatening in the freeze frames I could recollect. And he was a top with a dick that could be taken without much effort or risk of pain. I had blocked out the unsettling feeling his manner gave me.
This time the scenario he outlined was more unsavoury, but despite this, I was oddly attracted to it. Was it for the story, the search for new experiences good or bad, or just the money? Or something that glimmered just out of sight? I was to leave the door unlocked, pretend to be asleep on the bed, fully clothed. He would enter, undress me, play with me, tie me up & fuck me. At some point I was to wake up, protest but ultimately submit, and then fall back asleep imploring him not to tell anyone. We’d discussed the logistics of where he’d leave the money. However all of this was foiled by the fact that I booked an apartment without a buzzer for the main entrance. I went down to bring him up and he went straight to the bathroom. I imagined the real reason for this was to give me time to assume the position. The absurdity buoyed the situation with a degree of levity, diluting the threat I felt from his fantasy. This was a mistake.
I was on the bed, the initial steps performed. The contents of the bag had begun to be divulged. Tape & ropes, and hidden that rustled ominously. He bound my hands to each other behind my back, taped my underwear in my mouth, took my shorts and tied them over my head. He taped my ankles to my bound wrists. I heard him searching for tools, concentrating to try to identify a clink of metal, a brush of fibres, over the sound of my own exaggerated breathing. It was unbearable, looking away while he rooted in the bag. Time chooses to be cruel with its relativity. I clenched and relaxed my hands over and over again, loosening the electrical tape and testing its strength. How much power did these surreptitiously wrangled centimetres of movement give me? I rolled my head to uncover one eye. The balled up briefs had been easy to spit out, but I made sure to keep them in place so he didn’t suspect my voice was free. Every time he bent over the bag my heart beat out the fantasies of what was coming next. Questions were beginning to tremble, had I sought out retraumatisation? My whole body was alert, straining to analyse, strategise, predict. In the opposite direction ran the urge to soothe, to rationalise, but attempting to not be a puppet of the past meant trying to ignore all the warnings of my body. He retaped my hands when I snapped some strands. He turned my head away and tightened the drawstrings of the shorts. Did he suspect what he was putting me through? Was he waiting for me to be the perfect victim? Fear must be part of eroticism for him, is that okay? At least if I let him kill me no one could accuse me of being a kink-shamer.
I am bound and things shift up a gear. His hand is around my neck, tight. That flash of fear of missing a step and falling, but now it’s into the void, with no hands to shield from impact. And no impact to relieve the dread, it stretches out, taut. Time expands like accordion bellows, and in its gorges time is torn apart, opening again onto the void. Further I fall in, and now the expanding and contracting of bellows is pulsating through my temples. Fear is lapping at the door, burning outside and threatening to break in. Whatever it is it has started now, anxiety has boiled over to reality, marching into the unknown. I buck, snapping open my body, throwing my head back like a projectile. The head board rattles like thunder against the wall. He dips his head to avoid mine and tightens his grip. I’m levitating, vibrating with fear. It slows. Seconds blanche then freeze, turning to icy crystals that cut as they tick out. Hard & white like his knuckles, which had seemed so weak before. Hot flesh boiling under ice white knuckles. My own spit becomes my enemy as it pools and drips down the inside of my throat. Fear is making deals with an indifferent universe pleading for a second chance. I sputter swallow, my belly rapidly beating out a gulp. He’s small, I can hurt him at least. I scrunch my body in, yanking his arm but his fingers are wrapped around me, I can feel their heat. Fear is a stampede, the sound of a stampede when you’re inescapably in its path. I fling myself open, arching back, pushing off with my legs and wrench away from him, onto the other side of the bed. The tape crackles as tear my hands apart, instinctively throwing them up to protect my head and shaking my vision free. Fear is white hot, fear is all. But I catch myself in the movement. He’s calm, watching me, bemused, annoyed or derisive; I can’t tell.
“Are you okay?”
I thought you were trying to kill me.
“That was a bit much.”
“I’m sorry.”
We are only 30 minutes through the booking. We continue, I let myself be bound, but not tight, and I won’t let him cover my eyes. He cums, it ends, he doesn’t ever put his dick inside me. As he’s packing up the bag again he pulls out a large pair of scissors. He holds them up for me to see. To cut the tape he says, if it had cut off my circulation. He leaves, sharp exhale. A shudder. I stand in the shower, the imprints on my wrist remain. No time to dwell, client 4 is on the way.