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The City

It is windy. Very windy. At my left I can see the harbor and the lights from the The City. At my right, the open waters. Right in front of me, I see the Golden Gate Bridge. It is the last evening of a whirlwhind 48 hour short visit to San Francisco, where I travelled after Shibaricon. It feels like I could stand at this spot for the rest of my life. The air, the wind, the sea, the breathing that is possible to do, how every breath fills the lungs with such intense life. It is strangely grounding, a moment in time where everything else stops, except for time itself, as it keeps on getting darker and darker and colder and colder. My trip in the US is coming to an end, and it is here that I’m reminded of the experiences I’ve been lucky enough to have, they move through my mind like flashing images, or a brief reminder of a sensory experience; skin twitching or a muscle aching slightly, remembering the sound of a creaking rope or leather gloves, slowly closing over my mouth.  Not even 2 weeks in the US and it feels like I know who I am again. Like the skin is fits around the body and the mind can distribute itself over the thoughts in an even fashion.

The 48 hours in The City were made possible by two people whom I am honored to have met and eternally grateful for their hospitality; Bus Driver and Pink.  They happened to be two of the first people I met at Shibaricon on the first day, and Bus Driver also helped at one point to spot during a demanding suspension. They, together with other awesome and wonderful people, made the con even better.
In the end of  Shibaricon I was looking for somewhere to go as I would have a couple of extra days before the flight back to Europe, and had thus put up a note on a notice board saying something like Busty Swedish Blonde seeking Bedspace. With a limited budget, crashing at someones’ couch seemed like the best option. Not before long, I was suddenly invited to stay at Bus and Pink, an offer which was impossible to refuse. Said and done, ticket bought and bag packed, leaving O’Hare landing in San Francisco. Slightly dazed and rather confused due to tiredness from Shibaricon but  in the same time on a strange adrenaline high  I made my way through the airport and was met (after getting lost…) by my hosts, and their adorable Peanut.

When visiting people who generously open up their home to a Busty Swedish Blonde they have only met a couple of days earlier, I was hoping intensely for not being one of those annoying guests and pointed out I could be fairly self-sufficient so they would not have to interrupt their day to day life due to the Busty Swedish Blonde. Lets just say that I had no idea they would have none of it, as the following two days I was so well taken care, showed all the sites, taken to the kink-shops, parties, et cetera et cetera. After meeting the housemates, having a good night sleep and taking it slow in the morning, Pink showed all the kink-shops, including  MR S and a visit to Good Vibrations, which was fairly awesome to say at least. During lunch time, we spoke about the kink scene and leather and her and her partners involvement in the community. It is organised on such a different level that would make London look pretty much like a bunch of party obsessed perverts. Which we kind of are, but that is beside the point :). Pink  also showed me the SF Citadel, a great permanent BDSM space which was really huge and well equipped.
I the end I visited Wicked Grounds  more than 3(?) times in less two days, had one great lunch, a huge milkshake and just hanging out. After a quick change of clothes, I was dropped off at Wicked Grounds one more time, waiting for Bus who took me to Bondage a Go-Go (BaGG). Now, if there is something that is awesome, it is to experience different kinds of scenes different parties. I become like a horny sociologist, trying to take in as much as possible. BaGG had a great feeling to it, although I must admit that we spent most of the time in the play area so did not see much of the rest of the club. What I did gather though, was that BaGG managed to fuse a couple of things together which another club in London has tried but not succeeded  in doing: fusing the industrial/goth scene with kink. This was mainly done through the awesome music (as an industrial chick, it was heaven to get to play to so many great tracks). In either case, it was a really great place, with a small albeit very well managed play area.

As I had expressed an interest in Bus’ flogging skills (with Pink  politely pointed out that he is a sadist..) I felt slightly nervous, but also strangely centered as we entered the play area. Was strapped to the cross, and not before long the falls of the floggers started to rain over my back. This was one of those floggings which takes you so far away you are in lala-land. A warm up which was exactly that, not just a short interlude before the ‘real’ thing, but  carefully tempered and ministered. And it was the tempo and the sensations that got me;  florentine flogging at its best, moving with the music, but also creating music on its own; syncopations, emphasised beats, the sounds coming out from my mouth all of a sudden. It is like letting bodies do the talking, instead of the vocal chords it is the warm skin, the muscles, the un-planned guttural sounds, goose-bumps, the breathing, the pulse, skin involuntarily twitching, the back arching, moving away from but still drawn towards the pain. You simply don’t want it to end, but it always does. Something which was very special during many of the experiences in the US was that it felt ok taking time. Taking time sitting down and talk properly for a starter, but also, when in that state of bliss after play, it could take the time it took. Not always, but sometimes, it feels like I has to get myself together in a orderly fashion not too long after the play has finished, especially at parties (not on the private parties, but regular ones). But here I was, in lala land but also sitting at the floor, with Bus assuring me there was all the time in the world. Everything was like it was wrapped up in cotton, even the music was muted. And sitting there, at the floor, was like the most natural place to be in. It became a reminder to the self; to stay present in the moment. Around us, there were others playing, and the passion and skill people showed made my warm body feel even warmer.

A while later, when having landed, there was this little itch; I needed to tie someone. Was introduced to a lovely lass and we spoke a bit. She felt like playing, and I was borrowed a suspension ring. We set up, first rope is out of the bag, heart pounding already. People are busy chatting, standing next to the playspace with drinks, dancing. The suddenly, there is a stronger light and a voice announcing that a guest from abroad is here to demonstrate some of her rigging skills; and obviously people turn immediately around. For a brief moment I think something like: “SHITFUCKITYOHDEARGODSAVEME”, while pretending like I’m tying something really important behind the lovely girls’ back in order to hide what is probably written all over my face. Then one of those VNV Nation tracks comes on; a steady beat and a baseline,  a deep breath and then go. The adrenaline hits, the light makes it harder to see who is watching, and her body become the only thing that matters. With the adrenaline and the pace of the tying, it is almost like trying to scratch into her, dig deeply, removing layer after layer. It is not really pretty the rope, off centre and unbalanced, but god damn, it is so fun. Encasing her in a cocoon of rope and then just physical rope and bodies in motion; toying with her mind, moving in like an attack, forcing her off balance; a fistful of hair, her neck exposed. As the wham bam adrenaline wears off, I want to continue with the rope but with a less barrage of the senses, so the untying takes place on the floor, while sitting down, the rope is warm and so is her body, resting my cheek against her shoulder, controlling every movement, pushing her with my chest, adding tension rather than removing it even if the ropes are coming off. The last wrap around her wrists comes off; we have both forgot everything about the crowd. The evening continues, with more awesomeness, and when we walk back to the car, it feels like being wrapped up in cotton.

On the second day, I get showed around a very special and interesting place; my jaw dropping for each and every door that was opened. Suffice to say, I did not think about anything else than what horrible acts could be committed or was being committed. Those really abject, filthy, degrading, sadistic…..see, it is even hard to type anything about it!
Pink then fetched me and showed the touristy things, including Lombard street. We also found some sushi, and dear me, that sushi was basically perfect. Also walked on the Castro, which felt strangely touching. All this queer history and activism, the significance really struck, especially when visiting a LGBT-history museum. I am so grateful for those who paved the way, who fought back and stood their ground.

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That evening then finished with a visit to view the scenery described in the beginning of this post but also biting someone very cute in a dark parking lot.

I would like to thank Pink and Bus Driver who made the visit so unforgettable with your generosity and kindness. There is probably not words enough to express this gratitude, so I’ll just stop waffling.



Knife and punch

For the second week in a row, last Friday had some play that left me breathless, both literally and figuratively speaking.  This was some knifeplay which for me is always has been very challenging.

B is someone who, together with his partner L have turned into two very dear friends whose friendship I treasure immensely. Not only are they both deliciously hedonistic and perverted, but to sit down and speak to any of them means engaging in interesting and stimulating conversations. And oh, B is totally nutters as well, making comedy-domming into an artform while L always snaps incredible photographies.

At the party where all the ‘drama’ happened between me and Electronic Doll there was also other things going on. Such as B not believing me when I told him that the knife I gave him for B’day indeed was non-Freudian. I.E me presenting him with a knife did was not my way of saying that I wished him to do the stab-stab-stab thing or something similar. But as I said, B did not me believe me at all.

My relationship to knifes is troubled. There is a phobia, stemming from cutting myself by accident quite badly as a kid, and a control-issue that I have managed to direct in towards one single phobia. The result can be somewhat severe, which also makes it really hard for me to play with knifes, since there has been occasions when I’ve fainted due to knives being waved around. But there has also been a couple of good playtimes, as well as sadly, a bad one where someone broke my trust and then being proud over doing so…

At the first party there was first the knife and then the rough body play. And as I was lying down on the floor, my mind is still raising when he traces the blade over my body, then using the whole knife to make me even more aware of it being there. I trust this man immensely so I even if I’m jumpy and slightly antsy, I remain on the floor, trying to not breathe to fast, trying to take it all in, knowing the blade is right there in his hand, that he is moving it around, aiming it at me, flipping it, letting it dance in his hands. And he make me understand that he knows how to handle it, not just holding the knife but giving it life.  That knowledge is more frightening than the proprieties of the knife it self. And I guess this is where my fear lies, because a knife cutting vegetables in a kitchen is not the same as the knife in the hands of someone.  I hardly trust my own hands with a knife, knowing that it is likely that I will cut myself at some point. Its easy to do, no doubt about it. But then the element of someone who knows how to handle it, the knife is really out of your hands. Out of your control.

But after all of that there is still more, and that is the punching game. Now, if I would describe rough body play versus some of the other less direct, more tool in hand play like flogging, there are some distinct differences. First of all, while the sensations from slapping and flogging and the like can actually be very pleasurable,  it is not really that for me with punches. A punch is very intense, a fist in your side leaves you breathless and it is so much more likely that you will try to shield your own body. The thing is, that kind of intensity is enough on its own. It does not need to be pleasurable, because there is the fear there, the anticipation, the way that you have to poise your body, prepare, and then you react, your instinct tells you to protect your self, and you try but in the same time you don’t want it to stop.  And when B wrap a chain around his fist, stares at me, oddly smiling with eyes that pierce straight through me, I only have time to think ‘God, I must be to twisted for my own good’ before I’m so far away. He is adding pressure on to places on my chest that unexpectedly make it hard for me to breathe. I don’t know why, but I am lying on my back,  and I don’t want it to end, in the same way as I want it to stop but still don’t. That conflict, arising from the well- known self-preservation as well as the desire to still feel it, to still feel it all.

A week later and we are attending the lovely rubber-party at a friends place, some more of the action that went on you can read here. Lets just say it was one of the most debauched events this year. Latex definitely bring out something special in people.

B and L are here again, L dressed as the most beautiful rubber doll you could ever imagine and B wearing latex apron and kilt. Early on in the evening B shows me with a big grin that he brought the knife I gave him, and I by then have a feeling that it will not matter what I say, the knife will always be seen as Freudian. After some other shenanigans during the evening we start to play. And this time it is the reverse, first punch and then knife. His trademark glee in the eyes, as he holds me by the throat, tightening his grip and then simulating a movement, making it look like he is visually ripping my throat with his bare hands. And because of the pressure, the preciseness  and the speed, I don’t have much time to think, except when he slows it down, allowing me to think but only because he is building the fear up. After more rough play, I’m already a shivering heap of sensitive nerve-endings and breathing heavily. And I don’t even know how I know that the knife has come out. I don’t even know that it has not, because he leads me to believe it as. Slowly playing around with it over my body, and it feels like every nerve in my body is going to pop. I’m sitting up, this I remember, and I think the ‘knife’ came close to my face, and that is when I loose it. But as quickly as it comes, B notice it, stops and hold me, and I can control it nowadays, I can take a hold of the panic attack and return to the life relatively quickly, especially when I know that everything is safe. We sit for a while, L comes over and we talk. We talk about everything and nothing, and about how happy we are that we all know eachother, that there is a chosen family of us in this crazy town.

And I kind of don’t want to stop there. I really don’t because I know that if one falls off the horse, you should get up again, especially if you happen to like it.  And I happen to like the thought to work on my knife-phobia and get off on it. Not so much sexually, but for the adrenaline, for the rush and for the fear, that is controlled and administered by skilful hands. So instead not jumping on the horse again, I asked if we could do some more, but with me lying down, and I got what I asked for, but now he actually used the knife. Again, tracing it, simulating stabbing and cutting, mixing the speed of this and in general, again, being very frightening. I remembered breathing, most of all, kept it in the back of my head. It was only when he went for the hands, the fingers that I could not do it, with flashbacks to when I cut myself as very young. He changed the focus, and by the time he was done, I was dwelling so deep in the adrenaline subspace that I almost thought I would not return.

I did. And I still maintain, that the knife was not intended to be a Freudian slip of a gift. Somehow though, I don’t think that L and B believe me.


The Gauntlet-men in Pain

It’s easy to find pictures that objectify female form, both in the ‘vanilla’ world and the kinky. That is why I constantly look out for other images. Especially those which objectify male suffering. I still find it very hard to sexualize non-consentual suffering, simply because it is often not erotic. But still, I’ve changed quite a bit and find more and more imagery thats hotter than hot.

Like this clip for example:

An undressed James Bond, exposed and vulnerable and in actual pain, struggling to keep the villain at bay, challenging him still. And some CBT have never hurt anyone before.

But this is a clip that I’m even more interested in. Because there is so many layers to it.

There is the cocky individual, trying to desert from the British Army, only to get caught out, having to enrol in another army. Suitable punishment follows, and as he walks through the gauntlet, slowly and controlled, but in pain. And this is a kink of mine, slow paces that forces the objet du désir to keep control over him or herself. Barry London is an interesting movie all in all, but this was definetly the highlight for me.

But all in all, I’m not feeling very toppy at all at the moment. The only thing I’m really longing for is to speak to a certain someone and have someone with rope bundle me up and move my mind and body. But maybe you will find something that is hot with both of these clips, at least I did.


I’m pushed down on my knees, endorphins flowing so fast I can hear a buzz in my ears. He has traced the gun slowly over my body, and now I can feel the cold metal at the back of my neck. Two minutes ago, I still knew that it was not real, it could not be, he would not do it. He would…not..

But there is doubt now, an that doubt has transformed in to fear, and the fear makes me believe that it is just a matter of a fraction of a second before his hand will tense slightly to pull the trigger. But I can’t do anything about it, I can’t stand up, all of my defences are down, shackled or held in uncomfortable positions. The metal handcuffs make every movement into a struggle. I never want to leave this place. I feel like I am never going to leave, that this space is the last that I will inhabit…. And that realization makes everything perfect, as I wait for his next move.

Vac-bed, hands and Sybian vs the Hitachi

Ahh, the lovely Ladies Who…

We have met up before, and once again we managed to raise mayhem, but this time we remained in the London area and met up for a nice brunch before we got started.

The thing was that after a couple of intense revision weeks, I was in deep need of letting go and not control a thing. Which is where the vac-bed came into the picture. As I crawled in (such a weird feeling to crawl inside a sheet!) and attached the mouthpiece, the brightdaylight disappeared and my body and mind went in to that very weird, almost sedated mindset of bliss. As the air was sucked out, it felt like I was floating in cool, dark waters, halting the busy thoughts but still anticipating waves or currents. And they came. First in the shape of a hand touching. Then, one more hand. Then; pinches, small slaps, nipples tweaked and air-supply restricted. Hands, many more hands, the feeling of a body lying on top of me. Being held tightly, held down, ‘crushed’ or manipulated all lies within the realms of different types of bondage, and this vac-bed gave touch a whole new dimension. A vibrator, held against my crotch, I’m trying to meet it but sheets are still preventing some movement and so does the hands holding my wrists. Every cell of my body is feeling every touch, and I’ve left the sedated far-away floating, now instead being aware of every second, hearing the giggles of the Ladies. I’ve since long fantasized about this, imagining myself accessible and fondled, by hands and bodies and mind, everyone of them touching me differently. I did some guessing work, and thought I recognized the minds behind the touches, but it really was not what was important. Instead skin was just like the sheets of the vac-bed. Skin to be touched like the sheets were touched.
Later that day I also had a go at the famous Sybian. It left me a little perplexed. While it is lovely to see a sex-machine that is not designed to penetrate someone in 150 km/hour and actually puts some focus on the rest of the female bits, my allegiance still is with the Hitachi. There is a couple of reasons. First of all; the positioning is quite wrong for me, the whole straddling things is difficult. Either, all the weight is on the legs or the pelvic bone, to hold you in place. Many of us who tried it used a footstool to rest out upper bodies on, to make it more comfortable. But for me it is almost impossible to come standing up, and still very hard while sitting like that. Second of all, the vibrations, which are scary strong and very, very loud, makes you feel like you are humping a motorbike. My brain felt a bit like it turned in to milkshake. The Sybian definitely demands some technique and is probably the hottest when it is forced, but I must admit I had a quite nice orgasm. It was easy to handle technically, also had a lot of attachments (sadly ‘flesh-coloured’ and many quite scary) and surprisingly small. But I am a Hitachi-girl at heart in the end.

Great things ahead

New week, new horizons, a good feeling. I spent the weekend with friends, drinking to much alcohol, sleeping not very much, queuing 5 o’clock in the morning,   getting to know new, beautiful people, being flogged and then tied up in a rope-suspension. Will write a bit more about that later.

Now, first of all, if you are based in London or reasonable vincinity, or even far away and would not mind travelling for something special, you might want to check this out:

The event is the so called ‘illegitimate lovechild’, stemming from the San Francisco version with the same name, and I have a feeling it will be frigging awesome.
As fetish-clubs in London are awesome, a new club certainly must have something else and I think it is here that Kinky Salon will succeed. Not strictly a fetish club, but rather a playful, hedonist, sexy, queer space that encourages outrageous behaviour and creativity that is not directly associated with the usual dresscode of fetish-clubs, this might be exactly what you need.
The next party is on March 13, 2010, from 9 pm-4 pm and this is what they say about what is awaiting you who decide to go:

“Prepare yourself to have your inner child corrupted at the Toybox for Misfit Toys!

In honour of our first Kinky Salon endeavour, and the playful environment we hope to create, we’d like to corrupt your inner child at the Toybox for Misfit Toys!

“Come, naughty children, go fetch your warm gingerbread
and into the Dark Woods of Bed Time Stories, shall we tread…
Past pubescent candy bushes and gooey gumdrop vales,
Down moist, heaving slopes and past slippery, wet dales!
Where Beautiful Princesses dream in deep slumber
of being lavished upon by not one, but three Princes, in number!

Where Little Miss Muffet, that cheeky young tart
stuck a thumb up Jack Horner and gave him a start!
(and BTW- what the f*ck is a Tuffet?)

And yes, it’s quite true, (but long ago from the books since cut)
that the Mad Hatter had a thing for Alice’s perky, round butt-
He spanked her so firmly with his small, gloved hand,
it did wake the Jabberwocky from Slythy Tove Land!
And Snow White, that prude who just LOVED to sing
got herself tied up and lashed good, with a dragonfly wing
(by  Evil Witch & Puss-In-Boots …a Faux Queen and Faux King)

How about poor Rapunzel, pestered by that weird, pervert Gnome- all hairy?
Or, all the positions possible with 3 Bears and a girl ?
(Ponder that, yeah, it’s just scary…)

And of course all our favorite, the one with the Wolf
who had his head lopped off,  a-Trisket a-trasket
by Miss Thang with a huge knife she kept hid in her basket!
‘..all the better to chop your frickin head off, Mr. BEEEYOTCH!’”

I’m so going.
Another event you don’t want to miss is the London Festival of the Art of Japanese Bondage (don’t try to say that fast and many times!). This is an event during easter (2-5 april, 2010) and with loads of workshops and shows, by those who are amongst the rope-savviest people in the world.
Will bump these events more in future as well.

The Basement Body

The bus is moving and I want to moan out loud. His smile is barely visible but he know as well as I do that it takes a certain amount of self-discipline to not yell out loud. Under my coat small wires lead down in my panties, thin wires attached to small sticky notes of paper. It may seem completely innocent, but it is everything but innocent. He sits next to me, stroking my hair with one of his hands, the other he keeps in his pocket. The double-decker keeps on moving like only double-deckers in London move, with harsh jumps forward and twitchy stops. Like a small animal that is not sure of weather to move forward or to stay in the same spot. I know what the little device in his pocket looks like, imagine a electronical key for a car. But the reason why it rests perfectly between his fingers is not because that he is a proud owner of a Volvo or a Toyota, it is because of the electric impulses it controls. Small, battery-driven electrical impulses shoot out from the little black box attached to the belt of my trousers, hidden under my leatherjacket.  The goal for these impulses is my cunt. Or rather the lips of my cunt, close, close to my clit. A deep, tickling massage that by time intensifies. I try to concentrate on looking at London but the view is pretty uninteresting. And I don’t want to meet his eyes. His eyes that undress me in his mind.

What are you thinking about?

How come you make me want to much. And I think about how it is weird that it is still so bright outside, the sun is still shining although it is seven o’clock.

It’ll the nice going to Club Fukk. Cool and nice. Don’t forget to take care of my stuff in the wardrobe. I’ll take care of the rest.


He laughs, scratches me in the neck and place a light kiss on my cheek. He is dressed in black, well cut trousers, a white shirt and a jacket. The tie is in the bag, the big black bag.
We are headed towards a club were the heat comes from bodies that press against eachother, not from the sun. We know that everything we might need can be found there, close friends, fuck buddies, the possibility of voyeurism and exhibitionism. Condoms, latexgloves and lube. But we want more. I want more. I want to feel hands pressing against my skin and I want adrenaline. That is where the big, heavy, black bag comes in to the picture. The content of this bag is one that only he knows about. That is how we do it. That is how we always do it.

This is our stop
I’m wearing what I was asked to wear. A simple, white tanktop, a sportsbra and military-green cargo pants. A leatherjacket and sunglasses together with my darkbrown hair in a braid, a leatherbracelet. I like walking through the neighborhood with him, passing a thai-restaurant but I am hungry for something else. He presses down the button on the little device in his pocket, and as we pass alleyway after alleyway I silently moan and ask him to either Stop or fuck me here and now among the rubbish.

Not yet. Get a grip of yourself.

There is a chilling tone in his voice that I am not prepared for. It showers me with a cold feeling, silences me trying to get attention and then we arrive to the club, not a minute too late.
As we walk through the door a welcoming and familiar voice greets us. The warm hugs happen all while still having the electrics pounding the lips of my cunt.
I take care of all the items that are going in to the cloak room.  I can hear their voices while doing this, and fragments of their discussion makes me curious.
…just wanted to tell you, so there is no uncomfortable misunderstandings.

That is very appreciated, but there should really be no problems.

Have fun!
As he walks over to me, I can’t help but ask.
What was that about?


In the same split second I’m pushed against the uneven stonewall, arms locked behind my back. A cloth is pulled over my head, an in that moment I am the willing victim, trapped, the one who want to run away but still stay. I’m pushed ahead of him, against a wall that proves to be a door, stumbling along. My memory tells me that we are inside the club now, going in the direction of the dancefloor. The world looks different from under the cloth with nothing to orientate myself with. Automatically I stop to try to figure out my position, but he continues pushing me ahead, pushing me away from the dancefloor and then one more wall against my cheek. Uneven, cold and slightly sticky. His fingers slowly move inside me while he whispers to me that I should only speak if asked. And he will ask me only about the last 24 hours. And I will tell him everything.

So, it started to happen, the dangerous, all of those things we have talked so much about. And I know that I only have to express the words
‘I’ve only slept and nothing else’  and it will all stop. But I want to go there, become challenged, used, scared, cum hard and long. And I want to use lust with him. All that he can give, all that he want to give.

You can’t go anywhere. You can’t anything else but what I tell you and right now I want you to tell me everything. There is no other way to make this stop.

First I don’t believe him. Test him. His grip around my wrists relaxes slightly when we move through the club and I give it a try. Or my legs try to run, but the cloth over my head and my arms and hands behind my back makes it harder than I thought.
Two seconds later and then I can feel his body again, gripping and pushing me down on the floor.

Was that you trying to escape? Was that really you trying to escape from all this? You probably have to try harder than that. Have you not realized you are mine? That you are mine and you are going to tell me everything. If your vocabulary feels restriced I got things here that can help you. I got water, a knife, electricity, a gun and of course my hands. Amongst many other things. Tell me all about every step you took, all your slutty thoughts, everyone you spoke to, what you said, how often you touched yourself. If you do good I might even reward you, but if you keep information from me I have no other choice than to use those resources that I got at hand. And I might already have to use some of those in other to make you realize that I am serious

And then I can feel the cold metal. It starts with metallcuffs around my ankles, then my wrists. And then the chains, heavy and icing cold, pulled between the cuffs, force me into a sitting fetus-position, making my back ache. He keeps me there, can feel his eyes crawling over my body.
He lies me down on the side, the concrete floor feels sticky and the grovel press in to my skin, almost in search of where it hurts the most.

You don’t think I’m serious do you? That I can’t beat you until you are a wet heap of blood and then leave you here? Or is it water that you want? Something to drink, something that will help you loose that tongue and start to speak.
And that is something I really want. Water. To get the cloth off my head and get away the dry sensation and to be able to breathe. I nod and start to try to lift my head but instead I feel water running down my face, slowly drenching the cloth that start to try to find its way into my nose and mouth. I try to move, change how the cloth falls over my face but then he firmly press my head down. And then, I just try to adapt, to control my breathing trough the wet fabric and my whole body aches, and my cunt is pulsating and I feel the beat of my heart, not trying to give anything away.

In my own world, I hardly notice when he first grips me, and then push me over on to my back. The wet concrete floor is cold and again his boot is pressing against me, against my chest and then his hands around my throat.
I can strangle you right here and now. But you are not saying anything. Is that because you are stupid and don’t realize that you can get away from all of this?

The wet clothes are sticky against my skin and the small stones dig their way deep into my shoulderblades.  The chains are still there, but not as tight. I can move now but know what happened last time I tried to move.
His boot is removed from my chest and the cloth is pulled off from my face. A torch light up in my face, making me blind, disorientates and distorts all shadows. A faceslap and I have to breathe to be able to remain in a upright position.
These are in the way. You wear your clothes like armour. Sit still, don’t move a millimeter.
I hear a click and a cold blade. A knife opens the tank top, cutting it slowly while the torch still lights up my face, blinding.  He rips the top off, then cut my sports-bra,  grabbing each breast and clamp them, clamps that are connected with the little evil black box, I know because the my breasts start to pulsate.
Faceslaps and now my eyes are watering, tears streaming down my red, sore cheeks. But I don’t say anything. When he starts to hit my back with the palm of his hands I can also somewhere in those hits feel gentler strokes. Maybe it’s my imagination or maybe he actually strokes me. It is a fact that confuses me even more, and the hot flashes from his beating hands travels over my back in the speed of light.  But the rush that follows make me strong, convinced of how strong I can be in my helplessness. I can only give him what I want to give, and I feed on what he wants to give me.
Time pass, time that is relative. The intensity of the electricity is boosted, but I can’t pay attention to that when he continues to beat me. Instead I scream, first time out loud and guttural. I yell something about that I want him to stop, but he does not stop. Instead he lies me down, on the ground, I can feel his sweat, locate exactly where his body is for the first time; I can  feel him and his heartbeats next to me.
You will be free as son as you tell me what I want to hear. You remember it all and you know what I want to hear, is that not true, yes? Answer me.
My head nods, but I don’t say anything. I say nothing.
That was what I thought

He pulls me up on the knees. Heavy arms weighed down by chains. My head drop and I am as heavy in my body as I am light.  A body heavy as a thousand tons but yet a body light as a feather. He grips my plaited hair, turn my face towards him and give my forehead a brief, light kiss. And in that moment I come.

Heavy as a thousand tons but still a body light as a feather.

I say nothing, shakes, but not because I’m cold but because of the adrenaline. I have said nothing.