Give up?

The first question the cabbie driving me home asked me was: 
- Did you have a good evening?
- Thank you! 
- For work or with friends? 
- So... 
I hesitated to explain my evening to him, the dungeons, the swifts, the gags, the staples, the reading, the sadism...

Give up? 
Yes, for the first time all evening, I gave up! After all, he too held my life in his hands. Would it have been reasonable to risk shocking him between a guardrail and a bridge pier, so close to a crosswalk? 

"Red! Red! Red! Red! Red! 
The light is red!"

So, instead of writing a few lines about the evening to bolster my memory, we chatted. To my surprise, at the end of the journey, he handed me his guest book. The one in which he asks his volunteer customers to write a few lines. 
To remember, before giving up the profession. 
I felt like writing to her about what I'd really done with my evening. How magical it had been. How necessary it had been. 
And how she'd hit the nail on the head. 

Give up? Not twice! I put the words in, rounding them off to make them socially acceptable. But I told him that my evening had been exceptional. And that he'd contributed too. 

A few hours earlier, I had arrived at your home. Tensed by my personal situation, I'd been afraid I wouldn't be able to cope emotionally, so much so that I wondered whether I should cancel. 

Give up? No. Not out of defiance, but simply because I trust you. I knew you'd understand if I had to interrupt the session. 
You took control of my brain, you played with it. You succeeded in scaring me! From the plaster lacerating my back to the cyanide cords and the upturned eyelids, I imagined myself in the grips of a serial killer. 
A very real impression. A deliberate one, judging by your catlike smile. 

[Note from Madame Lule: The thread running through my meeting with F/Marthe was the reading of a short story I'd just written. I propose this device as a session scenario, see here].

How can I describe my state when, tied up in the dungeon, gagged, with staples stuck in my skin, I listened to you read me the sadistic horrors you'd felt like writing earlier in the day? I was fine. At your mercy. Freed for a time from the outside world, at last released for weeks. Marthe, comfortably caught in the light of Madame's headlights. 

Give up? What a strange idea! 

I wished it could go on and on. The time had come to return to reality. I gradually emerged from the fog and returned to the real world. I perceived the sounds around me and the music with a new acuity. A little painful. 
I cried and you were there to help me. The tears well up again as I think about it. 

Abandon me? No. I didn't let the sobs overwhelm me even though the urge was there. 

In a recent podcast, you talked about norms and normality. I'm so appreciative of feeling far from the norm without being abnormal. 

Give up? Not even in your dreams! 

Testimonial from my dear Marthe.
Photo by ArthK.