The Letter
You walk into the hardware store – that great cavern of delights, where so many seemingly innocent every day items have for you that second, darker, more exciting use. You told your partner that you were “going to get that mirror” you had been meaning to buy for the last – well long time. But it’s an excuse. He knows it, you know it, its all part of the elaborate ritual that has developed over the time between you. Oh, don’t get us wrong – there is no secrets between you, none but the deepest and darkest fantasies not shared and explored – and played with. But this one has only been flirted with, teased gently into the light, toyed with, and then put away again – too deep, too intense – too scary. Too selfish But the moment you smile at the attendant at the door you know where you are going to be led, the tightening knot of excitement in your stomach, the warmth gathering in your loins is going to lead you to that special isle as surely as honey attracts a bee. And you will be stuck there. You walk to that isle, sure in your mind that every single person that you pass can see straight into your mind, can discern what you want to do with those seemingly innocent items stacked there on the shelf. Uses you only half want to acknowledge yourself, uses that you have to acknowledge. Because they make you so hot just imagining them being used on you. You stare at the shelf, lost in, thought? No, lost in a blankness, transfixed by the piles of tape in front of you, the piles of “painting supplies”. Painting is furthermost from your mind. Brown packaging tape shiny, thin, non stretch, and smelling so …. Rolls of cloth duct tape, the tuff stuff, thick, heavy, sticky, in escape able….. And the Insulating tape – dark, dark, black as night, so shiny, so smooth, so….. Seductive Every time you come into this store you pass down this isle – stare at the rolls, and dream , and wish, and then dismiss from your mind. For a start they are soooooooooo expensive, and the budget is tight. And he was only half joking when… “ if you bought home that much tape I’d be forced to use it all, all at once young lady!” But now you have the money – the windfall burning in your pocket. And the fantasy burns so bright “ if I bought home that much tape –I could get him to*…**”* No, you don’t want to confront that yet, yet the excitement that makes your very limbs ache tells you that if you reach out to those piles now , if you actually purchase the instruments of your deepest dark –IT WOULD HAPPEN. He loved you enough to ensure that. And it was why you loved him –because you know he knows you. And maybe, he wants it too. Do you feel guilty as you sweep the rolls, and rolls of tape into the large plastic shopping basket, the basket getting heavier and heavier. Do you have second thoughts as the money –money that could be used so much more usefully gets handed across. No, you only feel a mind filling euphoria, you are going to do it, really do it. You almost wish the young girl at the checkout could guess what the tape is for , so that you can boast – I dare, I dare to do what my logic screams not to. You race home, prizes rolling gleefully about in the boot, soon it will happen. Lust has no logic Maybe you should think about this , before you take the plunge. But you don’t think this, you are born this. Age 5, wrapping yourself into a tight sausage in your bed sheets. Age 11, while the rest of the kids taped each others pencil cases into masses of sticky tape –you let them tape your fingers and hands. Age 17, and that 1st DVD – curse of the mummies tomb. And then he came along… No, no need to analyse, just a crushing need to do it. He smiles that wicked grin as you enter the room –your play room. He is aware as you of those betraying nipples, pointy and hard, of your scent, of your excitement. “As we agreed?” “As we agreed –no going back” You slide into the white disposable overalls, the cotton feel light and soft on your skin. The zip is loud in the silence, competing with your hard breathing. The suit looks totally out of place, dumpy, ill fitting. But you know that the tape sticks too it with an unforgiving grip, the cotton absorbs sweat, and it allows no sliding of the arms at all. No going back means no going back A few, impatient moments, as he fiddles with the packaging tape dispenser. You stare transfixed again at the instrument of your imprisonment –how can something so slim, so thin hold you so well? It begins. You lift your arms –and strips are applied around the wrists. You drop them , and the tape attaches the wrists to your hips. He is busy now, work man like, wrapping a parcel, maybe for postage, maybe for storage. It does not matter, he will be very, very thorough. You have played this game before –but not too deep, not as deep as this. You both know what to do. The tape is applied just above the breasts, and you begin to turn on the spot, the tape firmly descending down the body as you provide the resistance to pull it off the roll. You are the instrument of your own capture. Your breasts feel strange, compressed, flattened as the tape descends, further down, further down. Submission frequently means actually in control You occasionally stop, its hard not to get giddy. Strange how much you actually control this surrendering of control. Its an illusion. The moment you said “no going back” you were lost. Were found. Isn’t this what its really about? Finding yourself? ...