My prisoner
Loud. Loud and fast, like an assault between two doors.
Brutal my hand against his mouth as I crush the back of his neck and push the gag between his teeth. He tries to escape, my prisoner, to laugh at first, but the tighter my ropes grip him, the less he laughs,
and suddenly he's not laughing at all,
it just hurts,
fear perhaps.
"Madam,
I would so much like to be your prisoner, for you to tie me up and forget me on your floor."
My prisoner? Oh yes, gladly, be the prisoner I throw carelessly to the ground to scrutinize your irises, wide with surprise,
your face hidden, deformed by one of my lace panties, a ball gag, multiple turns of duct tape,
your body bound in hemp, jute and cellophane, so many layers that, unable to undo them at the end of the session, I'll have to cut them off with a pair of scissors,
a real torture scene before murder in my living room,
you, my prisoner, who hardly know me but already trust me,
so for you I check everything, the passage and the tension of my strings,
the strain on your joints,
placing adhesive on your mouth and nose,
the warmth of your hands and the color of your forehead,
a knife and two pairs of scissors nearby, because these games, at this intensity, are serious business.
- Grmrmrrprpppfff....
My prisoner squirms on the ground, looking as haggard as a man who has pulled the pin out of a grenade by surprise. I crouch over his upturned torso:
- Something to adjust?
Sign of denial.
- Then shut up.
He lowers his chin, I readjust a rope, "There, there, shhhhh...", I return to his face, I blind him with my palms. Relaxation is immediate, he lets himself sink into the constraint of the shackles. I take a step back to scrutinize him and engrave my work in my brain, before turning on the music, wrapping my arms around him and cradling him,
"You tear me apart, you repair me, you operate on me with an open heart,
you deport me, you widen me,
I untie you, you drift me... "
Arthur H's song comes and goes, I embrace my prisoner like a child or a beautiful love, caressing his wet forehead, tapping his temples, nibbling his ears, covering his gag with kisses and his back with caresses in the soft late afternoon light.
Her head is clamoring to nestle in my lap, as if in all the universe only she belonged there,
a smile,
suspension,
At that second, my prisoner knows all about the density of silence, the beauty of desire and the poignancy of abandonment,
"Do you understand that I'm scraping your diapers to the bone becausea part of me does not play ? "
But instead of these words, I tell him that the worst thing, what we die of, is not feelings but abandonment, and that instead of abandoning him as he asked me to, I'm here, so close in this intimate game, a game that isn't a game at all, that strips us bare to the soul and looks so much like love.
I also tell him that he's sublime in his abandonment and that showing himself so vulnerable in front of me, shackled, tied up, smothered, it's enough,
Yes,
accepting to be loved.
He nods vigorously.
But what did he say in his last e-mail again? Ah yes, I remember:
"In session, have neither grace nor pity on me. No emotion, Madame."
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Madame Lule, may not be used, in whole or in part, without my permission.
Photo by Alice de Montparnasse.
