Gwen's diary

 Today, I struggled on the bathroom floor. A delightful shiver ran across my skin as I laid naked on the cold ceramic tiles. The ropes dug into my skin, the gag spread my jaws open, the blindfold pressed against my eyelids. I tried my best to ease the tension around my wrists and ankles, tied together behind my back. The hogtied was much too strict, my back was killing me already. Slowly, my body heat warmed the floor. I shifted, settling into the least strenuous position, seeking comfort for my taut limbs and aching joints. A freezing droplet fell on my exposed side causing a muffled gasp. The key to to the cuffs was hanging above me, out of reach, in a slowly melting ice cube. As planned. Another one hit my breast, leaving a icy trail as it rolled down to my nipple. I shuddered in place, trying to wriggle to a less vulnerable position but two lengths of rope secured my knees and torso to the sink cabinet. As planned. I *knew* this would happen, all of this I had planned meticulously over the past few hours, fantasized about over the past few days... But there was a world of difference between knowing and experiencing. The droplets fell steadily, one icy prick after the other on my bare side. Despite my extensive experience I was always surprised by the tightness, the discomfort, the intensity of this self-inflicted abuse. I strained against the ropes wrapped around my limbs with a sadistic care. I stretched my fingers to find a loose knot, to no avail. I tried to dislodge the gag, nudge the blindfold, if only I could see... the head harness made it impossible, its leather straps hugged my skull in their locking embrace. These tricks used to work years ago, in the beginning, I was often able to pull an early escape but with experience and disposable income came more inescapable restraints. No knot within finger's reach was the rule. Sadist Gwen obeyed it diligently, making great use of cuffs, padlocks and stress positions, all to victim Gwen's despair. These days, I knew escape was neigh impossible, still I struggled in the vain hope of dodging the glacial drip running down my ribs. This never lasted long. My muscles grew sore and tired. The rope rubbed, pinched and pressured my flesh into submission. Any movement was met with all matters of physical pains and mental frustrations, again and again, until I laid defeated, immobile, unable to take more. I accepted the icy water which caused me to shudder. I let my mind wander past my powerlessness, wondering where it all went wrong. I should have made the ice cube smaller... ...the hogtie less strict... ...the gag is too large, it stretches my jaw painfully... ...maybe it was in highschool, maybe before that... Sometimes, I would set myself up with a vibrator or the sticky pads of an e-stim device, not always. I often felt it detracted from the experience. Of course it was sexual but part of the appeal was being forced to simmer in my own frustrated arousal, it was about being denied freedom, denied the reward. How long has it been? If only I could could look up... ...what if the keys fall in a way I cannot reach them? This was always a possibility, I knew it and chose not to delve into the prospect. Still, when I was there, in a situation I knew to be unescapable, fear wormed its way into my thoughts. My chest tightened, the gag felt suffocating. What would happened? I focused on my body, on the droplets, I let the ropes painful embrace dull the anguish, quieting the mind just as they restrain the body. It is fine, I can stay this way. I am were I want to be. --- The remnants of the ice cube fell on my immobile form, waking me from the enforced torpor. I leaned my torso back so the keys could side within reach. The operation was difficult, general numbness had replaced the sharp ache. I stretched my fingers to grab the keys, slippery, cold. A bit of ice still clung onto them which I had to thaw between my hands. Unlocking the cuffs took multiple, frustrating attempts until they finally clicked open, freeing my battered wrists. I slowly untied my legs, trying to avoid cramps. Everything hurt, every muscle, every tendon, every joint. The ropes had left a deep red impressions on my pale skin, a tingling imprint which would last for at least a day. I stretched with a moan on the cool bathroom floor, rediscovering my body's own mobility. Relief, pleasure, warmth, happiness. These washed over me in massaging waves. I wanted to touch, to finger myself and release all the pent up arousal. I reached between my legs, only to realize my numb fingers lacked the strength for anything but a faint caress. I wanted to unlock the gag but was soon reminded of the small padlocks which fastened the harness around my head. I wanted to get up but hardly managed to blindly crawl out of the bathroom. I managed to remove the gag but fell asleep soon after. My jaw hurts. My joints ache. My whole body feels stiff. It is a complete workout which strains every muscle, tendon and ligament. From tongue to toes. Why do I do this? The answer is both obvious and hard to articulate. . . . Because I love the pain just as much as I love the pleasure, the helplessness, the emptiness. Not having to care about people in far away places, about commuting or choosing, but being there, freed from worries and responsibilities. All focus drawn inward to my own restrained body, the hard floor, the roughness of the ropes, the cool air on my skin. Savoring the increasing discomfort, trying to fight it and being overcome, defeated. There is pleasure in the painful buildup, then pain in the pleasurable release, more intense than any orgasm. Nothing to do, nothing to see, nothing to hear. Peace. I was never able to nap, it felt like a waste of time, I could be elsewhere, doing something productive. Maybe it was the only way for me to take some time out. Past Gwen put so much effort into it, making sure everything was tight and unescapable so I would be forced to rest for a bit... Am I not forgetting something? Yes, of course. There is the danger. The nagging incertitude that I might not be able to get out this time... --- I stumbled through the apartment, bathed in the morning sun. I ate cereal, sitting on the kitchen floor. Yesterday's ordeal had drained me of all energy. I resented wasting a day but did not regret it. Purple bruises wrapped around my wrists, minuscule ecchymoses stretched beneath the skin where the ropes had dug in, fresh and red over the older ones. I will wear long sleeves tomorrow, I like it better anyway. I struggled to get up and go for a short, slow walk. Mild exercise is best to fight off the soreness. The children have no idea, of course, I teach, I smile, I give homeworks. Sometimes I meet their parents, they are equally clueless, they can't tell. How could they? I play my role, day after day, it is a pleasant one, the stakes are low. I like my job, sometimes I tell the kids that they will be "just like me" when they grow up, pleasant lies. Sometimes my mind is elsewhere, I do it all on autopilot. Spread eagle on the bed, frog-tie in the shower with cold water dripping drown, strapped to my office chair with a vibrator, doing the dishes gagged and wearing a rope harness for only apparel... "Oscar, can you tell us if we put *é* or *er* at the end of the verb?" ...tightly wrapped in a blanket, arms wedged behind my back so I cannot touch. I should look for quality leather cuffs but these are hard to find, maybe there are synthetic alternatives... "Kenza, you need to know your multiplication tables by heart, you can't rely on the order, it's too slow." ...people often celebrate special occasions by going to the restaurant. I do by planning long and complex sessions, these often take hours of setup, making sure everything is tied as it should be. It is a complete craft which requires creativity, dexterity, foresight. If escape artists are a thing there must also be restrain artists... "Sorry Zoé, we don't have any more time today, the bell is about to ring."
I remember having this obsession from a young age, long before I knew about sex or BDSM. Maybe cartoons are to blame for imprinting their damsels in distress unto my impressionable mind, maybe it was meant to be and I would have made the discovery one day or the other... As I grew older, I learned about sex, then experienced it for the first time. Disappointing. Not that it wasn't pleasurable, no, but it didn't scratch the itch. There is a whole world out there dedicated to the joys of bondage, I am all too familiar with it and have little interest in what it has to offer. I do not care about being dominated, about being someone's thing. It took me a while to realize I was not interested in people, dynamics, power exchange, munches, play parties... What I sought was the self-centered pleasure of existing in a perfectly bound body, far from everything and everyone. Pleasure is always selfish. I wanted to be left alone with mine... The kids don't have class on Wednesday afternoons. I got home, laid a towel on the couch, put the handcuffs on the coffee table, wrapped the pressure cuff around my neck. Three firm squeezes on the small rubber bulb, the smooth material swelled against my throat making me cough. Another one, to tighten the forceful embrace. I slid my pants down to my knees, using the belt to tie them together. Instinctively my fingers reached for my crotch through the damp fabric of the panties. Eyes closed in the spinning dizziness of asphyxia. I rubbed up and down, intently, thinking about the first time. --- I was a first year student, away from home, wanting to experience the newfound freedom of living alone, equipped with the cheapest hardware store hemp rope I could find. I washed it, cut it into convenient lengths and tied the ends off. The setup was simple: frog-tied on the bed with a simple sliding box-tie. I would lock my arms together by pulling and working the slack out, a simple slipknot made it a single way process. I lowered the blinds, got on the bed, naked, legs bent. I breathed deeply, shuddering from anticipation, never had my skin felt so sensitive to the coarse rope. I secured my legs in their folded position, resisting the urge the touch whenever I brushed past my inner thighs. Getting my arms through the loops was a difficult and tedious affair, they needed to be fastened against my torso, then slid behind my back through a dense coil of rope. Multiple times I thought I would need to revise the plan, settle for an easier option which I knew to be less secure. Finally my hands managed to slip past each others, forearms resting one against the other. Slowly I began pulling the coil taut, wriggling my arms, tugging, wriggling, tugging, savoring the growing pressure, the comforting tightness. That was it. I was *tied*. Previous attempts all led to that moment. Unknown feelings came flooding in which I would seek again and again over the years. The sweet struggle, the fear, the delight, the roughness of the cheap ropes, the softness of the sheets, the sweat beading up on my exposed skin. I squirmed and wriggled in celebration, with all of my frail body's frenzied strengths, until I was left breathless and exhausted. Only then did I realize I had no escape plan, only the vague assumption that the previous steps could be reversed to untie myself. I tried to work my arms loose, up and down, back and forth but the coarse hemp wetted by my sweat held firm. Fear took over. I struggled for real. The dumb teenager had no idea that more sweat would only cause the natural fibers to swell, that more movement would even the tightness. My knees, tethered to the headboard, made it impossible to leave the bed. I could only stare at my backpack, across the room, there was a utility knife in there, hidden, out of reach. Tears of rage rose to my eyes. I was frustrated, mad at myself, yet in the back of my mind I knew this was the situation I desired, the truth beyond all the simulated strife. I would have to call for help. Scream in the hope a neighbor would come, explain the pitiful situation, the concierge had a spare key... They would see me tied and naked in the half darkness. What would they think? How would they react? The thought alone was terrifying but that was the only way out. It was 4 PM, I allowed myself two hours to find another solution. I was defeated, beaten, trapped. It felt incredible. I had succeeded. The red numbers of the alarm clock steadily increased, I watched them in a state of trance, 6 PM came and went. Nothing to do, nothing to think, every time I tried to stir the bounds reminded me there was no need for it. Unfathomable peace and calm. Of course I felt the cruel heat between my legs, the need to touch, to pleasure myself. I squeezed my legs, tried to rub against the pillow, leaving a wet mark on the white fabric. I wailed in frustration, cried for the slightest touch, a feather or a gust of air would have pushed me over... The sun had set behind the closed blinds. Hunger, thirst and numbness in my limbs made it clear this couldn't last forever. I resolved to give escaping one last attempt, slowly, patiently trying to work my arms loose, millimeter by millimeter. This took a whole hour of painful labor until I could finally slide my left hand out of the first loop, then slacken the rest. One who has not been tied without escape does not know what freedom feels like. --- I rubbed faster and stronger in a steady crescendo toward orgasm, filling my head with this primitive scene, basking in the teenager's delightful anguish. Almost there, just a little more, a single caress would do it. Quickly, I reached for the cuffs and locked my hands behind my back. Victim Gwen quivered in frustration as the promised pleasure moved out of reach. Maybe I'm still a stupid teenager after all. My flat is modern and spacious, a small balcony overlooks the city below. A sea of roofs, beyond the trees, slopes toward the river. The view is almost pleasant on sunny days. The building itself is surrounded on threes sides by a crescent-shaped forest which is by far the nicest thing about it. The woods stretch in either direction for kilometers, offering plenty of maintained paths as well as lesser-known corners, especially where the slope was the steepest. Soon after moving in, I got in the habit of jogging there. Sports and bondage may seem like drastically opposed activities, movement and immobility, but they both serve the same purpose: emptying my head, not thinking. I run, stretch, swim, on autopilot, I let my body take over. From the building's main exit, one can go dive straight into the forest along a wide path flanked by chestnut trees. Many joggers follow it for it does not get a muddy as the smaller trails, eventually wrapping around a small lake then back into town. Smaller paths branch off to the left where the forest slopes down toward Déville-lès-Rouen. These are treacherous, rocky, slippery and always on the verge of being reclaimed by bramble. Three bunkers, overrun by vegetation, overlook what is now a highway. Their exits have been walled long ago and one can only peer through the empty gunports to get a glimpse of the bare concrete inside. I keep coming back to them. I was always fascinated with abandoned places, from childhood, I would hang out with boys whose activities and interests felt more relatable. I wasn't one to play the princess in peril, no, I was headstrong in those days. We went, we saw, we explored, gathered treasures and bruises. The three fortifications are built a hundred meters apart in a somewhat straight line. The ones on either ends are simple casemates, square concrete boxes, nothing more. The central structure is more substantial with a domed tower which would have likely housed a small artillery piece. One side opens in a narrow horizontal slit while a square cutout leads directly to the roof of the ground floor. Maples trees have grown on either side, shooting upward in plentiful bundles, shading the bunker with their tender spring leaves. I slept poorly, as if I had forgotten something important, something that needed to be addressed. I got up, showered, did the dishes to ease the restlessness. Eventually, I realized my thoughts drifted back to the bunker, led by an obsessive curiosity I struggled to explain. Having seen plenty of those, I knew there was little to expect but damp concrete, maybe a few syringes left by addicts -- reality is often disappointing. Still I left after lunch. The weather was overcast but warm, comfortably grey. The place was deserted, still and silent. I paced around, looking for the easiest access point. Older maples to the right overhung the lichen-covered roof. The climb was easy. I approached the square opening, weary of being seen from afar. Despite its outer size the space inside the tower was narrow due to its thick walls. Bird nests lined the horizontal gun port, from there, a steep staircase led down into the darkness. I reached for the flashlight and carefully went down the dust-covered steps. The first floor was cramped and angular, much smaller than one would assume from the outside. It was divided in two unequal rooms, both bare and empty, except for a lonely car tire. The still air was filled with the earthy smell of old concrete. Another flight of stairs seemed to lead underground. The beam of the flashlight revealed a short corridor flanked by two pairs of rusted metal doors. I pushed against the one closest to me. Nothing. 70 years of rust is stronger than any lock as they say... The second door on the left was slightly ajar. I leaned against it, wedging my shoulder between it and the frame. It slowly creaked open, wide enough for me to slide inside. The room was narrow enough for me to touch both walls by stretching my arms, only slightly deeper, five square meters at most. The ceiling was low with two metal attachment points cast into it. It likely would have served as some kind of storage space back in the day -- possibly for ammunition. In its current state it felt more like a cell. Buried underground, encased in concrete, securely hidden away, filled with peaceful darkness... A package was waiting for me as I got back from work. Plain cardboard, discrete, not that I cared. I brought it to the kitchen table, not exactly sure as to what it contained. Becoming a teacher greatly improved my monetary situation, I still live a frugal life, mostly due to a lack of desire for expensive things. I do not care for clothes, outings or restaurants, my only luxury is to buy bondage gear, one item per month. Ropes, gags, cuffs, straps, hoods, toys... slowly but surely the collection has grown to the point it takes up a whole shelf in my dresser. I cut the tape and opened the box, inside were padded mittens with locking buckles, smooth, sturdy-looking. As I acquired more items it became increasingly difficult to get excited over a new toy, these, however, were different. I had fantasized countless times about them, they fit so perfectly in the classic asylum setting alongside straitjackets and medical beds. The inside was seductively tight and soft, forcing the hand into a closed fist. Useless fingers in the snug padded embrace. I locked the buckle with my free hand, two rings on either sides made for convenient tie-down points. With the leather cuff tight around the wrist, there was no way to pull out. I slid the other one on, using my mouth to pull the strap taut. Both hands gently squeezed, perfectly secure, warm and comfortable. Endless possibilities filled my mind, in which I was stuck, unable to manipulate what would be needed for the escape. Gagged, blindfolded, arms behind my back. The key on the floor, right in front of me, useless, ironic. I could remove the standard leather cuffs and thread my metal handcuffs through the buckles instead. I would need my mouth to use the key. What if I were to be gagged? Game over. The idea that I could lock myself for good, right here and now, scarred me just as much as it aroused me. Of course I could do such a thing at any time, simply handcuff myself to a fixed point and throw the keys out of reach, but for some reason the mittens felt more definitive, more threatening. More than anything, I feared myself and the possibility that I could let such a scenario happen. The sharp staccato of the cuff's ratchet -- which I could close in a variety of ways -- then the silence, the instant realization that I had played for the last time and lost. I would cry for help through the gag, as hard as I could, but the small concrete cell is deep underground and I would have closed the heavy metal door... I woke up early today. I got up, ate, showered. Before getting dressed I applied the sticky electrodes to my inner thighs, using two layers of saran wrap to make sure they would stay in place. I packed my bag -- excited like a kid about to leave for summer camp. The rounded e-stim device, water, ropes, a silicon gag shaped to comfortably fill the mouth, the mittens. The morning air was cold and foggy for late April, it was barely 8AM. The dark silhouettes of a few early joggers trembled in the distance. They didn't venture near the bunker, the muddy and uneven paths guaranteed a sprained ankle. The maple trees were slippery from dew and left green streaks on my clothes. I stepped inside the tower, only to realize I had forgotten the flashlight. Going back would have taken only a few minutes but I resented having to back down so close to the goal. Beside, I did not *need* light. I took the stairs down, brushing my fingers along the walls, used my foot to feel for the second flight of stairs. These led me underground. I sunk into the cool, earthy air like into a bath. I spread my arms to feel the damp walls on either side, then the cold outlines of the rusted doors. *My* cell was waiting for me, small, perfectly dark. No blindfold required. I kneeled on the hard floor, opened the backpack, I recognized the items by touch alone. Despite my initial hesitations, I stripped naked, leaving the track suit and underwear in a corner. Goosebumps spread across my skin, I would be cold, that was fine. The plan was for a simple ball tie, I would run a rope through the mittens and use my feet to tighten them behind my back. This took time to execute, going only by feel, I had to tie and re-tie, making sure the knots stayed in place. Before laying down in foetal position I plugged the electrodes into the rounded e-stim device and turned it on. The small screen lit up with a sickly green glow. I was never able to stand more than 60% power. I pressed the + button until it displayed "70", put it in random mode then tucked the unit under the ropes against my belly. I pushed the large silicon gag inside my mouth, forcing my tongue down and filling my cheeks. Grooves on either sides meshed with my teeth making it very hard to dislodge, especially after I had secured the strap. Finally I shoved my hands inside the mittens. This alone was quite difficult. As soon as I got my fists inside, I started to stretch my legs, tightening the mittens around my wrists. The coiled rope slid against itself and I knew the friction, once tight, would make it extremely hard to undo. I was interrupted by a series of torturous pinches running through my crotch. I tried to scream and tears came to my eyes. *This was a mistake.* Another series followed, five agonizing pulses. I squirmed frenetically on the dusty concrete. Another one. I tried to pull my arms out and reach the box, turn it down, turn it off, disconnect the leads, anything. Again the shocks made my whole body spasm. My deep muffled wails echoed in the empty cell. Again, it felt my lips were being pinched with searing pliers. I rolled face down on the ground, arching my back to resist the next wave. This did not help, it came, just as unbearable as the previous ones. I prayed for the mode to change quickly, how many pulses were in each cycle? I should know that. 1... 2... 3... 4... 5... Overwhelming pain tensed my whole body, interrupting any effort to free myself. 5 seconds apart, then 5 shocks at a 1 second interval. Again, and again, and again. I rolled around on the floor, drool, sweat and tears mixed with the gritty dust and stuck to my skin. I needed to work on loosening my hands but the work of the past 5 seconds was immediately lost to my the spasms of my legs pulling on the rope. I braced myself for the next series but was instead surprised by a forcefully pleasurable buzz. Low frequency current coursing through my crotch. Electricity is not pleasant like a vibrator is, there is a tingling edge to it and its numbing action makes it neigh impossible to reach climax. Especially at this power level, the sensation was more stinging than enjoyable. An improvement nonetheless. I laid there, breathless, riding it out, doing my best to enjoy the cruel massage that would not result in an orgasm. This felt intensely blissful after the previous minute of torture, I relaxed into the bounds, tested the snugness of the knots. The mittens were incredibly comfortable, like a warm hug for my hands. Having experimented with long term bondage over the years, I knew the vast majority of restraints were not suitable for extended periods. These were the exception, I wanted to sleep with those on, wrapped in the soft and even pressure. I zoned out, kept on the thin edge between pleasure and discomfort, free of any distraction. There was nothing to see in the total darkness but I still longed for the blindfold's comforting contact. My mind wandered. Work, bills, money, the outside world, all vague threats waiting for me, outside of this dark concrete bubble. I was there, safe, underground. Ever since my fist experience in the small student room, this state of peace was the only thing I looked forward to. Earning money, buying gear, practicing knots, planning sessions. All I did in life was try to experience this total tranquility, as often as possible, slight variations on the same moment of blissful oblivion. I tied myself up to escape. Talk about a stupid statement... Pain shot through my crotch. The surprise made it all the more unbearable. Another one already? I should have focused on freeing myself instead of daydreaming. Five waves of agony washed over me. Electricity numbs the affected area yet the pain it brings stays as sharp as ever. I bit down on the gag as hard as I could, I tried every position to make it more bearable. These were useless, each burst was just as torturous as the previous one. The pain blanked out all thoughts. Agony, then dread. Rinse and repeat. Like a raft in a storm, the mind-numbing pain shook me, up and down, back and forth. I screamed in chorus with the discharges, sobbing in-between. Finally, the mode changed to a repeating ramp up, from a tingling buzz to a hard pinch. I usually enjoyed this mode, by at the current power level it mostly ranged from annoying to very painful. I had to free myself before the next rotation. I folded my legs against my chest and started to wriggle my wrists, back and forth, slowly reclaiming some slack from the loose rope. As intended, minutes of efforts only yielded millimeters of freedom. The mode changed again, to a continuous wave of varying intensity. That was ok. I continued the tedious work, tensing up whenever the wave became unbearable, waiting for it to recede. Eventually, I managed to pull my right hand out from the mittens. Immediately, I reached for the e-stim unit and turned it off. Deep breath. In the back of my mind, sadist Gwen whispered. _"Good girl. Now you can turn it up a notch and lock yourself back up. The battery still has plenty of juice left."_ I came back around noon yesterday, went to sleep right after. Thirst and hunger woke me in the middle of the night. Hazy memories, sore body. By backpack laid on the couch, I noticed the electrodes were still stuck to my thighs. I felt empty, happy, relieved. --- When I started teaching, during my first year, there was slightly older colleague who seemed to immediately like me. The feeling was shared, she was a lovely person, immensely kind and caring. We were very different however. She invited me to countless parties, I met a lot of people this way and I assume her intentions were to hook me up with someone. It would have been very hard to explain that I wasn't looking for anyone, I don't think she would have understood. I lacked the courage to tell her she was wasting her time, I gifted her scented candles instead. I felt indebted to her, uneasy and I cursed my selfishness, my inability to care for any pleasure but my own... In the end, she had to relocate due to family reasons. I felt sad yet relieved. I hope she is doing well. --- I try to rest. As my mind wanders I am struck by the fear of a sudden electric shock. My aching pelvic muscles tense on their own, jaws clench around the imaginary gag. It does not come, to my relief -- and slight disappointment. I went swimming after work. The pool is not far from the school I work at and weekdays barely see any swimmers. The rope marks are subtle, faint red curves across my calves and arms, thin brown bruises here and there. No one will notice, it takes both knowledge and attention to detail, people don't care. What do they see when they look at me? I am fit, in my twenties -- for a few more years, desirable, maybe. I focus on my movements, my breathing. Crawl, butterfly, backstroke, in a straight line, without a thought, until my lungs burn. The pool closes at 7PM. Swimming makes me ravenously hungry. I left for the bunker early. It felt strangely natural -- some kind of scheduled week-end commute I took for granted. I had brought not only the flashlight but a small LED camping lantern. Steep concrete steps, heavy metal door, finally, the small underground room. It didn't look like much, grey, dusty, barren. Still, it was *my* room, *my* cell. I hooked the lantern to one of the ceiling attachment points, laid a plastic tarp on the ground -- should have done that from the start. I couldn't help but think the next step would be painting the walls, which seemed like a very amusing prospect. I would paint them black if I could, for the space to feel even smaller, more snug and inescapable... Today was to be a classic setup. Cuffs and an ice-lock that held the key. Not that the mittens didn't feel amazing but I never loved ties that could be defeated through work alone. They didn't feel inescapable. The knowledge I could -- eventually -- get out at will spoiled the intensity of the situation. I stripped, hung the ice lock alongside the lantern, then proceeded to tie a rope harness around my chest. The delightfully tight diamond pattern dug into my skin, pressed against my ribs, restricting my breathing. I turned the light off before kneeling on the tarp. I could still use the flashlight but I enjoyed the darkness. My fingers worked on their own, threading, looping, tucking the smooth and supple rope, following a choregraphy repeated hundreds of times over the years. I folded my legs against my chest, securing my knees to my plexus. I pressed the blindfold in place, pushed the gag inside my mouth. The small vibrator was already in place, held against my clitoris with saran wrap, I turned the plastic knob to a third of its range, causing a noticeable tickle which would never grow to a full orgasm. After one last check I reached behind my back, the cuffs hung under my shoulder blades. The sharp clicks of the ratcheting teeth echoed in the small room. There I was, laying on my side. The steady vibrations filled my lower body with a subdued pleasure, the ropes dug into my skin and strained my joints. Pleasure and pain, flowing together into an ocean of arousal. To float or sink? Didn't matter. I would be there for at least two hours, there was no telling how long the ice would take to melt given the cool underground temperature. I welcomed this loss of control together with the knowledge I couldn't do anything to free myself. No moving, no calling for help, no choice to be made. I zoned out, lost in fleeting thoughts, lost in my intensely motionless body tucked in its small, secure cell. The steady vibrations lulled me into an aroused drowsiness. --- How much time had passed? Did the keys fall? Did the water stop dripping? Did it even start? I had heard neither. I felt around on the floor, as far as my restrained hands could reach. Nothing. Grabbing the tarp, I slowly pulled it toward me. It must have been there, somewhere, attached to the ice-lock's inner metal core. To my surprise the vibrations suddenly became stronger. Did the circuit fail? I tried to suppress the distraction and keep on searching, pulling and exploring the tarp with my fingers. The stimulations were hard to ignore however, and the key nowhere to be found. Fear and arousal clouded my mind. At this speed, the frenzied egg tickled just as much as it pleasured my sensitive clitoris. I only ever used vibrators for teasing, my preferred tools for orgasm where always my fingers. Weakness spread from my crotch to my belly and legs like a numbing wave, building up from the previous hours of teasing. I needed to think about the keys, figure where they were. But all thoughts were drawn to my crotch, the frenzied buzzing and the rising pleasure that would come crashing down on me, together with the knowledge I would eventually orgasm and the certitude it would not stop after I did. Suddenly the vibrations stopped. Surprise, relief, then the immediate wave of frustration which made me shudder and thrash. Did the vibrator die on me? The small plastic egg slowly came back to live however. The pent-up tension began to boil anew inside of me. Having been denied once had erased the fear of what was to come, now I single-mindedly yearned for the release. The intensity ramped up, causing my legs to shake in their bounds. It stopped, once again. My body spasmed needlessly, the gag muffled a frustrated groan. A sudden realization came to my hazy mind. *Someone* was, there next to me, silent, invisible, toying with the knob, toying with me. Right there, in the small cell, within arm's reach -- if my arms were free... I froze. Whoever they were they had picked up the keys, putting me at their mercy. All I could do was listen carefully, filtering out my quick breath, the blood pounding to my ears, the vibrator's hum. Why? Who were they? Did they follow me? I tried to ignore the device revving up against my clit. Should I try to reach out? How? What was there to communicate? They could do anything. Pinch my nose and suffocate me. Edge me until they got bored, then leave me to die. Move on to something much worse. No one would come to help. Being at someone's mercy. This had driven me away from the BDSM world at large, the inability to trust others. The vibrator became more forceful, more intense. Pressure. They had reached toward my exposed crotch, pushing the plastic egg down against my clit. Right next to me. As I laid there, drenched in sweat, I felt the coolness of their breath on my skin. Rage filled me. I screamed and struggled harder than I ever did. I tried to put up as much of a fight as I could, however pitiful. Seconds passed, I grew tired. A hand, thin and firm grabbed my bare shoulder and I felt *her* lean above me. "It's ok, it's over now." A woman's voice, slightly hoarse. The cuffs clicked open, freeing my sore wrists. "Be careful, one day you will stay stuck." She spoke from standing height, with a hint of sarcasm. "Next time I might even take the keys." The brushing of clothing, then footsteps fading away. I slept badly, every position felt painful. Fever dreams. I crawled out of bed, ate and drank from the fridge, laid on the floor until the sun reached its peak. Anger, relief, frustration, curiosity, pain... My left hand tingled unpleasantly, elbows and shoulders were sore and stiff. Did she follow me? Why? Was she just passing by? Why mention a *next time*? I wanted to hate her, this woman I knew nothing about. Who was she? Would she follow me in again? I wanted to confront her, face to face, but couldn't resolve to do so. What would I tell her? Did she enjoy toying with me? I knew sadist Gwen would have done much worse... *Next time.* All of it made me deeply uneasy. --- I opened the backpack, placed the gear back in the dresser. Wrapping the ropes in neat bundles calmed me. My restless hands starting tying knots I knew or imagined, sliding, locking. Shibari classics or western combinations, by heart, eyes closed, from muscle memory, fibers flowing between my fingers. Again and again, lost in thoughts. I headed to the bunker after lunch, instinctively. Why? What did I expect to find? Who did I expect to meet?... The sight of the stout concrete structure brought me joy. The occasional hiker had no idea this place was *mine*, they passed by unaware of the girl stuck underground, screaming in agony or moaning in pleasure... no one knew, except for *her*. Up to this point, I had not considered the fact we shared this secret. I climbed the maples, as she must have done to get in. This required fitness. The ground floor offered nothing of interest. In the short hallway, I looked for steps in the dust -- impossible to tell which were mine. *My* cell was just how I had left it, I flattened the crumpled tarp. I had come without any plan nor gear, pushed merely by curiosity. I turned the lantern off and laid down on the hard floor, looking up into the flawless darkness. Despite my previous experience the room retained its soothing effect. I could have stay here forever, away from everything and everyone, safe at the center of the earth. I slid my hand down under my clothes, slowly rubbing my sex, without hurry, without arousal, simply because I felt safe. If she showed up I would ask her to close the door and leave me for a bit... I saw myself from above, masturbating peacefully in a small concrete box, one just large enough for my body. Rough walls against my bare feet and head, pressing against my shoulders. A perfect fit. The orgasm came and went, like a warm and gentle wave. My slick fingers kept on rubbing, accompanying the wave to its soft conclusion. One after the other, thoughts popped back into my blank mind. Suddenly, I became acutely aware of the other cells, one beside me, two at my feet. I had never given much thought to the other doors but they must open on extremely similar rooms. A vision formed of three unknown silhouettes lying there in the darkness, so close. Silent beings, fashioned just like me, tucked away in their little boxes. Unreachable, unknowable sisters, unable to move a finger or make a sound while they shook in bliss or agony. Lost to the world... Once again, I found myself kneeling naked in the small cell. Ropes, blindfold, gag, mittens, carabiners and a pair of earplugs were laid out in front of me. Same place, same time. What was I looking for? I started the slow and meticulous process. The ropes flowed between my fingers, around my limbs to apply the familiar pressure. I did it mindlessly, on autopilot, lost in feverish thoughts. The plan was to fold my arms and lock my wrists behind my neck, using a tether from the ceiling. A length of rope linked feet to waist in such a way I could not fully stand but would be forced into a tiring squat position instead. This was the crux of the predicament, I would have to hold this position for however long it took to loosen my arms, failing to maintain it would ruin all progress. No distraction. Gag, blindfold and earplugs. I would lose all senses. I did it for *her*. Why? The question came up, again and again, while sadist Gwen was setting her trap. I could not articulate a clear reason, only vague intuitions. In a way, I wanted to test her, see if she would really leave me stuck. What would she do when she would see me powerless, at her mercy once again? In truth, I expected her to make a choice, for both of us. I would offer myself and see what would happen. Extra bundles of rope laid on the tarp. Why?... I wrapped the leather harness around my head before rising to my feet, as far as the rope would allow. I clipped the carabiner to the rope hanging from the ceiling then passed my arms inside the loops and shoved my hands into the mittens' welcoming padding. I slowly lowered myself, wriggling my wrists to even out the tension. I got on my knees to relieve my burning thighs. The rope above offered resistance, keeping me upright. My part was done. I was free of worries, blind, deaf, mute, immobile. I savored the tightness around my breast and arms. The delightful vulnerability of my stretched out chest and exposed armpits. I knew the position would get painful very fast between my knees on the hard concrete and my stretched out torso... I waited. --- A subtle movement woke me from trance. She was there, manipulating the ropes behind my back. The fibers sliding against my skin, the contact of her fingers. Suddenly, my legs were pulled from under my body. It felt like I would fall forward but something in my back prevented it, supporting my chest. I understood she planned to suspend me between the two ceiling supports. I was hoisted up, carefully, alternating between feet and torso. Three points were attached to my midsection and thighs, further spreading the weight. This relieved both my knees and wrists which had started to ache horribly. I wanted to thank her. Once the motion stopped, I attempted to wriggle my arms and loosen the mittens but there was no slack to be had, she had tied it off when shifting the attachment point to my back. That was it, a truly inescapable situation. *Game over.* Every sense had been taken from me, every possibility, the very ground had been stolen from me. I remembered her saying she would leave me. It did not bother me. It was her choice to make, a choice I had no agency over and no need to worry about. I analyzed the situation with detachment, as if it was happening to someone else entirely. Hanging in midair was enough to quiet all thoughts. The future did not concern me, as long as every successive moment was of the same kind as the one that came before it. I felt the subdued presences in the other rooms, lost in the same oblivion, hanging in their own worlds. How did these other Gwens feel? Did they experience waves of blissful pleasure? Were they kept on the edge of an orgasm that would never come? Did they writhe in mind-numbing pain as cruel electricity pricked every inch of their bodies? If they could, would they moan, scream or stay serenely silent? Our four bodies, hanging in a rectangle, swayed in unison to an invisible breeze. Through the earth, I saw the corridor stretch to infinity, lead to endless cells holding endless copies of myself, each experiencing endless pleasures and pains. Arousal, fear, joy, regret, peace, frustration, relief. One in particular hangs there, alone and naked, stewing in her pathetic arousal, dripping down onto the tarp. Through the gag, she sobs in frustration, praying for the touch of a feather or a gust of wind. She wonders if she has been edged for her whole life. She doesn't remember ever not been suspended in a cell. Blind, deaf, mute. Her whole reality starts and stops with the confines of her body. She pictures herself floating at the surface of an ocean, gently carried by the flow, alongside her pale sisters. The waves surge inside of her. Ropes keep her from sinking under the endless night sky. Stars in her eyes sway back and worth like a child in a cradle. Her sisters whisper that they understand, without words. Slowly she melts into the liquid, like an ice cube in boiling water. She sways gently deep beneath the earth, like a seed entombed in concrete, alone, forgotten, sad and happy. Crushing pain. Thirst. Hunger. Dizziness. Laying on my back on the hard ground. She had come back to untie me in the end? Clothes against my skin. Did she dress me too? The flashlight was there, almost in my hand, its beam blinded me. I had to relearn to see, relearn to move. Next to the backpack I recognized the familiar shapes of triangle sandwiches. --- Every step sent waves of pain through my joints and muscles, I was convinced I would fall to pieces like a broken doll. If I did, I only wanted to be put back, limbless, in my tiny box. I did not see any light when I climbed the second flight of stairs, the sun had set a long time ago. --- At some point I found my way home. I opened my backpack this morning, for the first time since Saturday. The gear was all in there, ropes tied in tidy bundles. The hazy memories I had from this week-end clashed with the neatly ordered items. For a second, I thought these were someone else's belongings. *Her* ropes, *her* mittens, *her* gag... strange, foreign. She had packed the bag, she had dressed me so I wouldn't be cold. Why? Mechanically, I put the items back on the shelf, one after the other, setting the ropes aside. They were damp from my sweat and would need to be washed. Only a folded piece of paper was left at the bottom.
I will grant you what you are looking for. I assume there is little holding you back, make your preparations and leave with me.
The page is small, torn from a notebook, the calligraphy quick and deliberate. I read it again and again. When I realized I was running late for work I called in sick. I had little time to write this week, little motivation to do so, I will not be taking this diary with me. I handed my resignation letter on Tuesday. I wish I could have said goodbye to the kids -- it is my only regret -- but this does not concern them. "Ma'am, where are you going?" Good question. Adults don't know everything after all... --- I emailed the landlord saying I needed to move out urgently for "medical reasons", confessed to breaking the dishwasher's handle, told him to keep the deposit. *I assume there is little holding you back...* Maybe, couldn't say. Now they're all gone. I got rid of everything, methodically, with a melancholy satisfaction, withdrew what was left on my bank account before closing it. It makes for a nice, meaningless, sum. Years of work. Job, clothes, dishes... I gave everything away. The movers will be here soon. --- I didn't care for the furniture yet seeing the apartment empty makes me sad. It is late. I lie on the floor, in the sleeping bag. The backpack holds all of my belongings: bondage items, a change of clothes, papers, some money, some soap, a toothbrush... I am no one, I have nothing, soon I will be nowhere... --- What if she doesn't come? It is ok, it doesn't change anything. Tomorrow I will get up and go to *my* cell, one last time... I did not sleep. Everything I need is in the backpack. In the end, only this diary is left. It is the only object I will regret. It's like having a part of me torn out. Experiences, memories. They still exist in my mind, of course, but minds are perishable things. By remembering, we build new stories from the old ones, constructed narratives that fit our current worldview and betray who we once were. Authenticity is lost forever as we fill our lives with retrospective lies. I had never questioned why I wrote a diary in the first place. It felt like the right thing to do, even if I never read past entries. It should be apparent by now that I do not care about leaving a trace or being remembered. I don't know who will read this, police maybe. There is nothing of importance for you in there, only for me. This is a part of myself I leave for safekeeping, I don't know where the rest is going. This is goodbye. --- I have been honest and truthful in every word I wrote. And I realize the reason I started writing was to be honest with myself too. Life is full of lies we use to keep up a facade. I wanted a place where I could express all the truths I could never share with others. Not out of shame, but because they wouldn't understand. The truth is that I made up my mind long ago. I was just waiting for the opportunity to manifest. I am going on long vacations by the sea, all paid for. I do not wonder where, or what it will be like. I will see for myself soon enough. Don't worry about me, I am safe and secure, where I was always meant to be. -This is goodbye.- This is farewell.

Part 2

 Augustine told me I should start keeping a diary, I am not sure I have anything worth writing down... It is something I used to do, *before*. It feels so far away, so foreign, something *past Gwen* would do, in another life... The weather has been uncharacteristically warm and sunny these last few days. The sea glitters, green and blue, between the trees. The warm salty wind sweeps across the cliffs and reminds me of childhood. I can make out the outline of the house through the blackthorns, I like to walk but rarely stray far from it. *Everything* is there, a room, a bed, *her*. Will she read this diary? It is fine Augustine, you can. My mind does not hold a thought I -would- can hide from you. --- Diaries... the idea stirs nostalgic memories. On that morning, before leaving, I went back to my concrete cell, one last time. She was waiting for me outside. I left the small black book on the floor, in the last place that *belonged* to me -- or maybe the last place I *belonged* to. Odds are it is still there, in the dark. I was my way of putting *past Gwen* to rest where she was meant to be. "Time to sleep." She pushes the earplugs in and secures the leather harness around my skull, pressing the blindfold against my eyes. I cannot hear the click of the small padlock yet I feel it lock behind my head. In the meantime I fasten the thick leather cuffs around my wrists, waist and ankles, I can do it blind. As soon as I am done with one, she slides a padlock through the buckles, attaching it to a length of chain which ends with a carabiner. Gently, she guides me to the bed and clips the restraints to the countless canvas loops sewn into the mattress. The position varies, depending on her mood, hands behind my back or in front, legs spread or pulled back... she then lays the heavy blanket on top of my bound form, wishing me a "goodnight" that never reaches my ears. I am free to unlatch the carabiners to change position or use the bathroom, sometimes I experiment with the mattress' endless possibilities, most often this evening ritual puts me straight into a deep, dreamless slumber. --- I remember when she led me to *my room*. The imposing mattress immediately caught my eye, thick straps ran across it in both directions, every 15 centimeters or so, dividing it into countless squares. I was amazed that such an item existed and its sight alone filled me with anticipation. As I watched Augustine ready the restraints I understood the thick cuffs could be weaved directly through the sturdy straps, greatly reducing the room for struggle. She seemed to notice my fascination. "This will change the way you think about bondage." She was right, of course. The wide padded cuffs spread the load in a full, even embrace around my limbs, unlike anything I had felt before. The straps fastened across the mattress were taut in such a way they resisted even my most minute movements. Never had my efforts to struggle felt so absolutely vain. Not being able to escape was a given, the mattress offered more however, it made moving itself impossible. I felt like an insect stuck down with tape -- would she pull me apart tweezers? Being so perfectly overpowered made me uneasy, at the time, I did not trust her as I do now. She laid her hands on my naked body, warm, comforting. "The first time is always scary, don't worry. Do you want the hood?" The black padded hood laid by my side on the bed, excitement spiked with claustrophobic apprehension. Sadist Gwen whispered : _"Yes."_ Augustine paused for a second, seemingly pensive. "You will have plenty of time to try out everything. Just close your eyes for now." The answer relieved me, I complied. "I will let you two get acquainted. Call me if you need anything, ok?" --- Over the years, I had come to accept that all forms of bondage were inherently painful. This one was the exception, it was comfortable like a perfectly inescapable hug. Two cuffs across each limb, one around the waist, firm, even pressure. I thrashed, wriggled and struggled, straining every muscle in my body, trying every technique I knew or came up with. Eventually, I succeeded in tiring myself out. The cycle repeated for hours until I was completely exhausted. I do not think much these days. When she is home she usually locks me in delightful oblivion. The rest of the time I do chores, eagerly, walk or read books from her collection. The routine calms me, I am unsure how many days have passed, they flow by so easily. *Past Gwen* had many thoughts, many worries, all of which feel strange and foreign. Augustine shares little about herself or her past, I do not ask for more. I know she works in finance under a pretty lax schedule, she spends most days with me, sending emails or making calls when needed. From time to time she spends a few days in Rouen where she owns a small apartment. At night, sometimes, I wonder what she gets out of our... *relationship*. In the beginning I tried to offer my services, share a bit of the pleasure she granted me, but she politely refused. "Seeing you like this makes me happy. It is enough." Maybe she is not into girls after all. To tell the truth, I don't think I am either yet I would do anything to please her. She doesn't ask for anything in return. When I first saw the room and the restraints I selfishly assumed they were meant for me. *My room*, *my bed*. Presumptuous girl. It seems highly unlikely. If not for me, for whom? Tell me Augustine -- if you read this diary while I am securely locked away. Did you envision yourself fastened to the bed, lost in powerless bliss? Is your mind fashioned like mine? Is that why you seem to understand me so well? You can just ask, I will take care of you, I swear "seeing you like this" will be enough to "make me happy". Was it meant for someone else? What happened to them? Did they back down at the last moment? Did they leave? After all, you told me I was free to leave at any time... why would I? Nothing terrifies me more than the idea of being thrust back into this world I fled, away from you. I could search the house for answers while you are away, I do not care to find them. If life has taught me anything it is that knowledge is a poison to happiness. --- The garden's northern edge overlooks the sea, I bring the small red diary and sit on a fallen tree left by the last storm. Grey ships glide under the Channel's hazy horizon, seagulls laugh as they disappear in the fog. Every morning -- when she is home -- she unlocks the carabiners. I cannot see the door open nor hear the chains rattle but I usually feel the minute movements through the mattress. I smile and mutter "Good morning", to which she must answer... something. She guides me toward the bathroom, warm hands around my shoulders. I remove my nightgown, get in the shower, clip my wrists to the hardpoint above my head then spread my legs, stretching my arms and torso. She never instructed me to do so, I let my body do what's natural. Cold water pours down onto my bare skin. I tense up, breath deeply while she directs the showerhead. It pauses and I am left quivering. Viscous soap runs down my back, she rubs me vigorously, arms, torso, breasts, belly, hips, legs... she slides her soapy hand between my legs, caresses me in just the right way to make me forget the bitting cold. Another pass of icy water washes off the soap, I shudder. The warm towel feels like heaven. *** I do not enjoy the cold showers. I could ask for warmer water, at any point... I do not. Everything she does for me, she does without sadism. I realize these morning showers are one of the very few sources of strife left in my life. Maybe that's what makes them important. *** The other source of strife is cooking. This strange art frustrates me to no end, no amount of attentiveness seems to prevent failure, dishes go awry in a second, without a sign... I grumble and swear to Augustine's amusement. "It's fine, you'll get better. It just takes time and practice." The prospect of spending more time with her eases all culinary woes. Once I am clean and dry she leads me back to my room to unlock the harness. Hearing, sight. The pale morning sun sheds its cool light on this place I have come to call my own. A desk, an office chair, a dresser, a tilting mirror which reflects my white nakedness... I enjoy the decoration's elegant simplicity, while sadist Gwen yearns for a cell, the room reminds me I am a guess instead of a prisoner. "Breakfast will be ready very soon." The dresser holds few clothes, mostly sportswear. She invited me to pick from hers on a few occasions as we are of similar statures. I do not dare -- besides, there is no one to impress. From time to time she will send me buy missing items at a grocery store nearby. We eat breakfast together, as... equals? As lovers? Not really... *As family* might be a fairer descriptor. I resent the term. No one in my family has ever shown me such care and understanding, by far. Somewhere out there, in this wide world I couldn't care less about, my mother learned I had gone missing. How did she react? Of course the "good for nothing" daughter went missing... maybe she felt validated in never caring for me. "Looking awfully pensive." Augustine snatches me from the resentful memories with a smile. I do not know her age. She looks to be in her late 40s, early 50s maybe. While many women try to maintain a semblance of youth by dying their hair she simply keeps them in a long, grey braid. This creates an advantageous contrast with her regular face, almost devoid of wrinkles. A crescent-shaped scar runs from her right temple to her shin which I always thought looked like the euro symbol. She told me it came from a car accident. Sometimes, if the clothes permit, I catch a glimpse of another one at the base of her neck. Her body is supple and slender. Gymnastics is another activity we do *as family*. I insist on doing most chores around the house -- it is the only subject on which I dare cross her. She assures me that I am not required to and often jokes about having found a maid in the wild. I soon came to experience the padded hood's dreadful intensity, the smothering pressure and warmth wrapped tightly around my head, shrinking my world to nothing. Unlike blindfolds which took away sight in exchange for increased sensitivity the hood blanked out all sensations -- all thoughts, all desires. The nighttime harness seemed mercifully open in comparison. This singular item was enough to keep me prostrated in place. I forgot about my limbs, my ability to move or feel around. From time to time, Augustine would ask if I wanted it. I would often decline, the hood was special -- in the way being buried alive is special. She knew and understood it. She gently held my hand through my first experience with it... *** I went for a walk, While the days are still pleasantly sunny the evenings have gotten both shorter and colder. I came home as the fading daylight shaded the woods in blue. "Gwen, I am very sorry, I will have to spend the upcoming week in Rouen. I have important things to settle which can only be done in person. Trust me I wish this were not the case." "When you come back I'll be a Michelin chef, I promise." "I want you to promise me something else." Her tone and expression had taken a weary inflection. "Please, do not tie yourself up while I am away." "Don't worry, I'm a big girl. I've done it more times that I can count." "Please Gwen!" The painful crack in her voice filled me with guilt and fear. I had never seen Augustine, usually so serene, lose her composure. "Of course, I promise." "Gwen, do you know why I took you in?" I was totally taken aback by the question. There had to be a reason, of course, but I had quickly accepted it would remain a mystery, some unknowable twist of fate. "You would have kept on going to the bunker if I had not. One can only get lucky so many times, one day or the other you would have gotten stuck down there. You would have died. You should have died." "What does that mean?" "Do you remember the first time we met?" Memories flashed through my mind, in reverse order: getting in the car, seeing her in the forest, the blissful trance of being suspended in *my* cell... our first *meeting*, the vibrator, arms folded behind my back, the panic of being at someone's mercy... "The keys would never have fallen. The ice-lock was hanging at an angle, the core was caught on a ledge inside. You would have died in there." "Why didn't you tell me?" "It sounded like a convenient lie, you wouldn't have believed me. Instead I tried to scare you, to keep you away. But seeing the rope marks on your body I knew this wouldn't do. You would have kept on chasing the same high until you got burned." I couldn't help but notice something sad under her severe expression. "I took you in to keep you safe, to stop you from eventually wasting your life. So please, promise me you won't be doing it while I'm away. You will get a much as you want once I come back." I promised, again and again, until her weary frown disappeared. "Augustine, thank you for saving my life. Back in the day I would have said *don't bother*, but now I'm glad you did." "Don't mention it. Dinner is served." --- This exchange left me with a defuse fear, the reason on which I could not pinpoint. It shed a new light on the last... six months of our shared life. How easily doubt can worm its way inside our minds... I was woken up by her fingers brushing against my cheek. My limbs were already free, the blanket pushed aside. "Augustine, do you enjoy our relationship?" I couldn't hear her answer, in a way, it made me feel safe. "I never understood what you got out of it, and now I am afraid that I have been using you. I don't want you to feel like you have to do all this to keep me safe. Please Augustine, tell me you didn't take me in because you felt obligated to do so. If you don't like it I can leave, I will stay safe I promise..." Words poured from my lips until she pressed me against her to unlock the harness. "Silly girl. Not everything in life is about pleasure." _"Blasphemy..."_ Seeing her smile soothed me. "I take care of you because it gives me purpose. There comes a time in life when you have to decide what you truly value. Career, family, a hobby... I do not care for my work, I do it out of habit. As you can see I have no one in my life anymore. I am not a saint, I took you in because I wanted to." Purpose... while I was reflecting on her answer she reached for the remaining padded restraints stored under the bed. "And I *do* enjoy toying with you. Do you think I would own these things if I were not into it?" She circled the bed, threading the cuffs through the canvas loops. "Come on, in position. I won't see you for five days so I need to get my fill before that." "Yes Ma'am." I couldn't help but notice her change in demeanor. The cuffs closing shut around my limbs soon quieted my worries. The blindfold dropped once again, together with a gag. Powerlessly serene, at her complete mercy. The mattress creaked as she climbed to my side. She slid one arm under my back, nesting her fingers in the nook of my left armpit. The other hand lifted the nightgown to rest between my legs, rubbing gentle circles. After just a few days of living with her I came to realize my body responded to her touch more readily than to my own. This betrayal scared me. Eventually I simply let her flip the safety cover and press the *pleasure* button without a thought, because I trusted her more than I trusted myself... The gag muffled my moans, then my screams as she tickled my defenseless armpit. Her fingers entered me while her thumb remained on my clitoris. Strength, dexterity, steadiness. The ruthless pace of the hand below contrasted with the sly caress of the one above, keeping me on edge. Whenever I was close to orgasm the vicious tickles would break the buildup, drowning out the arousal. I did not thrash or try to move away -- both would have been impossible. I simply accepted the back and forth, I let her play me, pleasure me, punish me, drive me up and down. I moaned steadily with the ramping pleasure so she knew exactly when to snatch the orgasm from my grasp. Each time she brought me closer to the edge -- so agonizingly close, each buildup was faster than the last, each denial more torturously frustrating. "I will let you cum now. Then I will tickle you until you cry." This was my chance to shake my head, to refuse. I nodded resolutely. The hand below began to speed up, I breathed deeply as the weakness spread up from my crotch, thrusting my pelvis to match the rhythm. My body wanted to buck but the bed held me down, adding to my desperate powerlessness. Before I was fully prepared ecstasy washed over me, painfully intense, then full and warm, filling. Her hand slowed to prolong the sensation, guiding me down the slope of the receding pleasure, making sure I took it all in. Her fingers, still inside, held me while my breathing calmed down. Cruel caresses from the hand above brought me back to reality, reminding me of the planned second act. I realized -- too late -- just how horribly sensitive the orgasm had left me. The fingers below dug into my inner thigh while the ones above ran across my ribs. The fight to hold the laughter in was immediately lost and I wailed through the gag. Her body pressed tighter against mine. Her dreadful dexterity in dealing pleasure was only matched by that of dealing punishment. Uncontrollable laughter shook me in the restraints. The unbearable sensation flooded my mind. My body struggled on its own, instinctively, fruitlessly. I begged incoherent words muffled by the gag and drown out by the laughter. Eventually, my body could not sustain such activity and went limp, leaving only my heart and lungs to fight the desperate battle. The fingers trailed across my ribs, belly, armpits, each more sensitive than the next. The torturous attention constantly shifted so I would not get used to it. I came to terms with my powerlessness, with the sensations, with being a broken doll stuck in a oversensitive body. I forgot the words needed to beg and the desire to make it stop. I sobbed in blissful defeat. *** She had freed my limbs yet I could not move. My lungs burned. The nightgown was soaked with sweat. "Laughing is good. The body cannot tell the difference between spontaneous laughter and... coerced laughter." I felt weak and warm, fulfilled. "Authentic joy is hard to come by. That's why God gave us an easy way to force it." "God? I didn't take you for the devout type." "My parents were. I was raised that way but it... didn't stick." I always avoided asking her about her past, silencing my curiosity. After all she had done the same with me. The mailbox outside didn't bear any name and never received any mail. I realized I didn't even know her full name. "God gave me a sinful taste for women. He's got no right to complain." From time to time her fingers brushed across my sensitive skin causing delightful tingles. Her warmth against my side soothed me as I laid blind and immobile, wishing we could stay like this forever. I got up, blind and deaf, made my way to the bathroom. The cold shower was harder to endure on my own. --- Only when she is absent do I realize how dependent I have become. I don't think I ever missed someone before. *Past Gwen* was tougher, having lived on her own for nearly a decade. Strong, independent. She made it a point never to rely on anyone. What would she think if she could see me now -- poor abandoned pet?... With Augustine absent I try to avoid the house which feels strangely empty. I go for hour-long walks in the forest which stretches on top of the cliffs, alone with thoughts and memories. Childhood, teenage years, studying, becoming a teacher. And then what? I resent the question. I am where I want to be, I have everything I quit my old life for. "What do you want to do when you grow up?" I knew I wanted to leave the house, any way would do. *Past Gwen* did what she could, without anyone to rely on. Maybe she would be happy for me... --- I cook, trying to bridge the gap between edible and delicious. She left money in the box on top of the fridge in case I needed to buy groceries. She trusts me with it, with everything. This shared life made me uneasy in the beginning, which might sound strange considering she had me tied and naked on a daily basis. I stuck to the main staircase, the kitchen and the living room, trying not to intrude. She noticed, of course. "Come." She led me up the stairs to what I knew was her room. _"I don't..."_ She put her hands on my shoulders and gently pushed me inside. It was a large room with white walls and dark wooden furniture. On the left was a computer desk and a few shelves. A wide bed with purple sheets took up the right side together with a nightstand and an open dresser. A door across from us seemed to lead to a bathroom in an arrangement very similar to my own. "Nothing's off limit. It is your house too." I felt intimidated nonetheless, in part by the tidiness of the place. It seemed every item had its place and the room displayed a striking mix of abundance and minimalism. Augustine was tidy and deliberate in all areas of her life, I understood it the very first time she touched me, the first time I saw her handwriting. People often equate strength of will to strictness. Augustine was not strict, she was supple, agile, her control was not stiff but caressing, flowing yet firm. Like the padded cuffs it was a snug embrace I could not resist nor escape. She softly crossed my arms behind my back, wrapping rope around them. I always complied, even in the early days. "Come on, get on the bed." She guided me against my initial hesitations. "Beds are made to be laid on. An empty bed is sad and lonely." She pushed me face down on the purple covers, using this opportunity to tie my feet together. The mattress felt amazingly soft and welcoming. *Her bed*. My legs were folded back, the rope threaded between them and tied to the one across my chest. This forced me to lay on my side in semi-foetal position. I marvelled at the tie's elegant efficiency. Sadist Gwen would have pulled it as tight as possible, until I was hunched over in agony by rope digging into my crotch... Augustine put a pillow under my head. Her smell surrounded me, warm, human, calming. "See? You fit right in." Being alone makes me realize just how much I have changed. Over the last six months I had not gone more than two days without seeing Augustine. I have to plan my days, make choices, think for myself... Not that Augustine has ever tried to reduce my freedom. She made it clear I could leave at anytime, she often asked what I wanted. It is her who encouraged me to write a diary. I try not to think about the promise I made before her departure, I do not even entertain the thought of tying myself up. The desire is gone -- did I get my fill? No. The prospect of her return fills me with warmth and lustful expectations. I have only lost interest in the solitary activity. Vivid memories of planning, executing, struggling, finally escaping. Excitement, elation, pain, pleasure... *Past Gwen* did her best to experience it as often as possible, as intensely as possible. Sad pleasure, lonely pain. --- Onions must be stirred constantly so they don't burn. Add a bit of water when needed. The alternative is to keep them on a very low fire but I don't have the patience -- besides, they still require some stirring that way. I ran for one hour today, it has been a while and my stamina isn't what it used to be. The temperatures have dropped dramatically, the wind has picked up. Waves crash against the cliffs below in a foamy clatter of pebbles. I remember asking Augustine if she was afraid about the cliffs eroding, taking the house with them. "It is true, they are receding. The plot itself shrunk twice since the 1900s. So yes, the house will eventually fall into the sea, in two or three centuries. It will be someone else's problem by then." I seldom thought about the age difference between us -- which must be around twenty years. Growing old, dying. While the perspective of my own death left me totally indifferent that of Augustine's filled me with heart-wrenching anguish. She smiled at me from across the table, with a hint of playful mockery. "Don't worry, you won't wake up on the beach one day." We had been to the beach below on a few occasions. It is a narrow band of sand and dark pebbles which vanishes altogether at high tide. The Channel, even in the sunny summer days, is always dark and cool. Dark blue, green, melancholy. One feels minuscule, stuck between the rocky cliff face and the endless sea. I often swam along the shore, following Augustine's slender silhouette who walked barefoot on the sand. The gentle summer waves rocked me up and down, steadily, like a breath. *** I miss the summer and every fall I mourn it as if it was never to come back... It rained without interruption today, I stayed inside, getting the house ready. At every moment I seemed to overhear the rustle of the car on the driveway's gravel, I peered outside, just the rain... Excitement, anticipation, joy, a hint of apprehension... I hate to think I have grown so attached, so weak and dependent -- like a child or a dog. It is unfair, to both of us, stupid thoughts... Less writing, more cooking. --- Ultimately, I didn't hear the car, the door opened while I was setting the table. "Good timing, dinner is almost served." Augustine appeared in the doorframe, elegantly dressed but slightly disheveled. "I'm sorry Gwen. I am very tired." For the first time I discovered a woman with heavy eyes, who rested her shoulder against the wall for support, slightly shorter than I was, vulnerable. Someone I wanted to care for and protect. "Of course, up we go." She seemed surprised when I guided her up the stairs. I rubbed her shoulders as I led her to the bedroom. "Thank you, I can..." "Nothing's off limit. Come on, I'll take care of you." She displayed a tired smile for all resistance. I stripped her from the two piece suit. A weave of pink scars stretched across her right shoulder, reaching up toward the neck up front, down toward her shoulder blade in the back. "Don't worry. These have been healed for almost fifteen years." She spoke slowly. "They're just a reminder that life is fragile and shouldn't be wasted." I led her to the shower, making sure the water was warm enough. I couldn't help but notice how she spread her legs, leaning forward to rest her hands high up on the tiled wall, head tilted down. I went through the motions of something she had done to me countless times, naturally, with a surprising mastery, running my soapy hands over her compliant body, allowing myself to cup her breasts and slide inquisitive fingers down her pelvis. She pushed against my touch, eagerly. "Wouldn't want to tire you any more than you already are." I washed the soap off, dried her before taking her to the purple bed. "I'm sorry I can't put you to sleep." "Don't worry about it, I can do it for one more day. Just rest." "See you tomorrow." "Goodnight Augustine." --- Something has changed and I can't yet tell what it means. I feel strange, dizzy, maybe I too am tired. I thrashed desperately in the wooden crate, at the mercy of the small black box. Electricity, at a set interval, ruthless, unavoidable. A smooth buzz then ramping pain, like searing needles being driven into my tender crotch. I had asked for it, she had placed the sticky electrodes and given me a test ride. The black box was more powerful than the small unit I owned, with a broader frequency range. Watching me squirm in place seemed to amuse her -- not out of sadism but because I tried my best to act tough. "I can take it, don't worry." "You will regret it very soon." _"I know..."_ --- My whole body ached. She untied me, carefully to avoid cramps, then led me to the ground floor bathroom. While each bedroom had an attached bathroom this one was larger, it housed the washing machine, a chest freezer, a closet for cleaning supplies and a bathtub. Augustine had told me the house was built in the 80s with the plan of renting rooms to tourists, thus the abundance of bathrooms. The bathtub was full. She started to undress, putting her clothes on top of the washing machine, as for me I was already naked and sore, arms in a box tie. She grabbed the ropes that crossed being my back, steering me how she wanted. She had me kneel in the deliciously warm water, then swiftly got behind me, pulling me back against her. Her legs hooked inside of mine, forcing them open. I fought back, arching my back, trying to wriggle out of her grasp. Her hand naturally reached for my crotch. The pain of my clitoris pinched between her fingers froze me. She adjusted her position, pressing herself against my back, tighter, skin to skin. "Feisty girl. If you want to win you should not get tied up in the first place." "Sorry, couldn't resist." "Oh, you can resist all you want." The pressure receded as she wrapped her arms around me. I closed my eyes, giving in to the warmth. "Thank you for taking care of me on Friday." "So you did enjoy it." "Yes..." "Augustine. If it is something you want we can switch. I can take care of you too, it is only fair." She spent a few moments in pensive silence. "You are cute." "That's not an answer." "I appreciate the offer Gwen but things are fine the way they are. It is a role that's very important to me." "A role..." "Yes. I am past the age of seeking selfish pleasure, I've had my fun, enough for a lifetime. Now I want to do what is right, for someone else." "You already did. You saved my life." "Not yet." I arched my back to look up at her but she clenched her legs, holding me in place. Instead she pressed her head against mine, whispering in my ear. "Gwen, I will never chase you, this is your home... but one day you will have to go back into the real world." As I tried to protest her fingers slid inside my mouth, forcing my tongue down and keeping me quiet. "Maybe not next month, maybe not next year, you are young, you have time." "If I could keep you forever, I would, trust me, but we cannot grow old together. You would have wasted your life by staying here. I would not have saved you." "There is no hurry, you will always be welcome. I just want you to think about it, to picture a future in which you are happy without me." She left my mouth to tweak my nipples instead. "What's so important out there? I gave up everything I had to come here. It is the best decision I have ever made, I am the happiest I have ever been. If you want it as much as you say, why can't I stay with you?" I felt her breasts rise against my back as she breathed deeply. "In that accident, fifteen years ago, I lost someone who was very dear to me. Someone who cannot be replaced. I had my happiness, it is in the past now." "I'm sorry Augustine, I didn't know." "I can't keep you as a pet to entertain me while I sulk over what is lost. I want you to live while you still can, find your own happiness. I..." The words seemed to run out, she sighed as she held me tighter. We stayed motionless, silent, until the bath turned cold. --- I always felt Augustine would never be *mine*. I never even entertained the thought of becoming her lover... Poor Augustine, what will you do when I'm gone? Alone in the big house. Will you try to adopt another Gwen? Is it something you have done in the past, over the last fifteen years? Poor Augustine, sleeping with a ghost in your big purple bed... I feel horribly sad. We still go through our daily rituals. The morning shower, getting locked at night... Things have changed however -- or maybe I just see them differently. In the past, there was something professional about the way she tied me, a distance that made me feel small and vulnerable. A patient in the doctor's expert hands, trusting, compliant, powerless. *Past Augustine* knew everything, precise, deliberate, she dealt pain and pleasure with skill and efficiency -- did she really enjoy it? I *know* she is still all of those things... Her fingers linger on my skin, around my arms, I can feel her desire to hold me, I lean into it, hoping my presence brings her some comfort. One day I will need to leave this place, I know it, it hangs like a threat over the horizon. I dread going back to the meaningless and lonely life, full of people who are not her. I was selfish, as usual... --- The weather has gotten much colder, it rains every day. Winter has begun for good. If I were to start a new life I would do it somewhere sunny. --- "Augustine, how were your parents?" She seemed to gather her thoughts before answering. "They were good people, they just had... dated views. I already told you they were devout Christians, they never accepted my interest for women. They did not blame it on me however, they saw it as a failure of their own. They thought that somewhere along the way, they had failed in raising me, in steering my affinities." "Not that I was ever indifferent to men, but girls seemed more approachable. I was sent to a private boarding school, that's where I got used to the shared intimacy, even if the underlying desire was already there. I was taller and slightly older, so the girls looked up to me -- I both sense of the term." "Eventually the word spread and I was kicked out for indecent behavior." I couldn't help but notice the smile forming on her lips. Pride? "I see I'm not your first victim, you've been inciting debauchery in the young for a while now." "Oh, but you are very different. Girls back then knew so little. You are far more receptive!" Her gaze embraced me, stripped me naked, avidly. Today was grey, overcast, heavy. I went for a walk while Augustine was out running errands. I run to empty my head, to lose myself in the effort. The steady rhythm of my heart, lungs and muscles blank out all thoughts. I stare at my feet or straight ahead, avoiding obstacles, making sure I don't slip, on autopilot. Eventually, my body grows tired and heavy, filled with a warm exhaustion. I come home and fall face down on the living room's couch, to Augustine's amusement. Walking is different. Memories come flooding in -- of the previous day, of last year, of my childhood. Each step retraces familiar events. I remember I have not watched TV for nearly a decade, that summer day when Raphaël fell from a tree and we thought he was dead, my mother telling me I would never be a good wife -- maybe she was right, it's fine. I remember the small concrete cell, its camping lantern and its tarp, the second-hand arousal and peace I experienced in there. In retrospect, the image scares me. Did *past Gwen* not see it as a concrete tomb? Was she drawn to it for that very reason? I struggle to breath, I try to chase the claustrophobic memory. One can only fast-forward, to that day when I met her. It was early in the morning, I had not slept. She was there, in the forest. I wasn't sure if she was the right person, any jogger could have wandered there, in order to see the bunker up close. "Gwen!" She almost screamed my name before coming toward me, as if she was afraid I would run away. "I am Augustine." What did I do? What did I say? I remember drifting in a dream-like state, at some point, she wrapped her hands around my wrists and held me like that until I calmed down. "Come." As we were about to leave I came back to my senses. "I am sorry, I have something to do in there first." "Of course, take your time. Leave the backpack with me." I went to the cell, one last time, to place the diary on the ground. Whenever I wonder about *past Gwen* -- how she felt, what she thought -- I picture the small black book which holds all the answers, untouched, forgotten. We walked through the forest, I don't remember what she told me -- if she told me anything at all. When we reached the car, I trusted her. "Cone on, get in." "Am I not riding in the trunk?" "Silly girl, trying to get me in trouble already?" I sat beside her. Crescent scar, grey braid, fair and regular face. Her slightly melancholy smile. What did I think in that moment? I do not remember, only the image remains. Familiar places passed by, soon replaced by unknown roads and landscapes. Towns, forests, fields, bridges through the window. Watching them put me in a pensive torpor, every second I moved further away from my old life, into the unknown. Far from everything. From time to time I peered at her and the same image, renewed in the morning sun, appeased me. The gate, the driveway, the house... the past melts into the present. The unfamiliar becomes familiar, homely. Eventually, *past Gwen* vanishes with a whisper, leaving only memories... *** "I see you have kept your promise." "Yes. It wasn't hard. I can't think about self-bondage anymore without feeling... sad. I remember how I used to pursue it, as often as possible. I did it for special occasions, as a reward..." She smiled and I recognized, for the first time, that children who have made their parents proud must feel the same joy. "I never doubted you. The food is delicious." I turned twenty-eight today. I did not tell Augustine, it is fine, being here with her is all I could ever want. *** "Gwen, if you go into town, can you buy light bulbs and champaign." "Champaign? What's the special occasion?" "Yearly results have been excellent." I tried to read her expression -- did she know? I was faced with this smile I had learned to love, confident, calm, with a hint of mischief. "Two bottles." "Feeling ambitious..." "E14 light bulbs." "Yes Ma'am." She reached for the box on top of the fridge. I enjoyed seeing the loose change pile up on top of the bills, burying them. "Spend it all in once place." *** The town in question was more of a large village, houses huddled along the main road, the rest scattered across the fields. The old church stood out in the flat landscape with its pointed slate spire. Apart from the single convenience store, the place had little of interest and the October sky made it seem especially bleak. An old woman, short and round, sat behind the counter with an expression of persistent boredom. The store offered the essentials together with an abundant selection of liquors. Augustine drove out to buy most of the groceries elsewhere. I bought expensive champaign and cheap light bulbs. I knew Augustine had fancy tastes, we lived in an opulent simplicity which I never entirely got used to. The trip usually took an hour, while I cared little for the town and its people I still enjoyed the brisk walk along the fields, then through the familiar forest. I tasted sweet euphoria at the idea of coming home, to her, away from the meaningless village and its unbearable boredom. *** Augustine cooked, she does so with supernatural ease and to great results -- I am jealous. The bottle opened with a subdued pop and a puff of mist. I hadn't had alcohol in more than a year nor did I ever see Augustine drink any. The golden liquid foamed up in the slender glasses, columns of minuscule bubbles rose in steady streams to the surface. "To the yearly results." Her amused smirk told me everything, of course she knew. I felt thankful to her for not mentioning it, for always acting with this subtle elegance. The fizzy sting, the bite of the alcohol, then a lingering aroma, full, complex. I had only drunk champaign a few times in my life, always the cheap and watery kind. "Thank you Augustine." "What for?" "For everything. For treating me so well, better than my own parents ever did, or anyone else for that matter..." "Gwen, being treated well is not a luxury, it is normal. Remember it, do not settle for less." "Thank you for smiling." "Silly girl." The alcohol filled my mind with voluptuous dizziness. I reflected on what it meant to turn twenty-eight, to enter the grey zone between twenties and thirties. One day I would need to leave this place, I accepted yet dreaded this prospect. When I turned eighteen I left the house with unparalleled joy and the firm intention never to come back. Freedom, excitement, relief. The tiny apartment I rented seemed like heaven. Eventually I would move back into a tiny apartment, find a job... disappearing had been seductively easy, starting over would not... Augustine took small, pensive sips. I wanted to have the business-woman for myself, emboldened by the champaign. "Come, let's get on the couch." She knew about my intentions yet complied, bringing the bottle. As she sat next to me in started to remove her top. "Trying to take advantage of a drunk woman?" "Yes." _"Unbelievable..."_ Once her back was bare I wrapped my hands around her shoulders, forcing her to lie face down. I straddled her, pressing my thumbs against the tense muscles behind her neck. I massaged her shoulders and back, drawing pleasurable moans. The scars under my right hand had a strangely smooth texture, the skin there refused to stretch and the flesh beneath felt different, wounded. Poor Augustine... I drank from time to time, to prolong the lightheadedness while I rubbed up and down her back with my palms. Neck, shoulders, ribs, spine, each part had a specific feel, specific techniques. I had Augustine under my fingers, eyes closed, compliant, moaning in blissful abandonment. I pressed my body against hers and ran my hand along her exposed armpit. She whimpered and tried to wriggle but I easily pinned her to the couch. Powerful Augustine, at my mercy. I leaned against her and gently bit her exposed neck while my nails teased her ribs. The sadistic drive faded as quickly as it had appeared, I laid on top of her, feeling her breath calm down. "I'm sorry, an evil spirit told me laughing was good for the body." She answered with a low muffled moan, sweet and inviting, unlike anything I had ever heard her say. I slowly got back up and resumed the massage. "Augustine, what... role did you play, in the past?" She remained silent. "I'm sorry. This is none of my business..." "No, it is fine. You live with me, and it does concern you." I felt her breathe deeply between my hands. "Her name was Elise. She was to me what I have tried being to you... she helped me, she taught me how to live." "The bed I sleep in, it is yours, is it not?" "Yes." "Augustine, we can switch if you want. I will do what you have done for me." "No Gwen, you cannot." "Of course I can!" "This is not what I mean. I know you are capable and willing, I trust you completely... but you need to find someone else for whom to play this role. You were thirteen when she died, you cannot get stuck in a past that isn't yours." I pressed myself against her back, wrapping my arms around her, holding my ear between her shoulder blades. "So you were like me once..." "Yes. Differently. I wanted to be controlled, to be broken, to not be myself. I did everything, with anyone, in the hope of losing myself." Her voice echoed through her chest, reaching me in a deep and distorted manner. "Elise did not take me in, rather the opposite, she was a drifter coming from a very unhappy household. In that regard you are the same. You share the same distaste for family, the same resentment for having been robbed of a happy childhood... She did control me, of course, we played all of the games, did all the things, to the extreme. But eventually she made me understand that if I stopped being myself she wouldn't be interested." "She was right, you're amazing." "She made me promise I would keep on living and I did, even after the accident. Such is life, quick joys soon erased by overwhelming grief." "It is not something we can tell the children. Marcel Pagnol..." She reached for her glass on the coffee table, I hoisted myself back up to let her drink. "Augustine, what will you do once I'm gone?" "Not much, what I did before you came here. I dread to see you leave but it has to happen." "Yes..." I massaged her, mindlessly while hazy thoughts drifted through my drunk mind. From time to time I would run my fingertips along her sides, pinning her down if she struggled -- which I knew she did on purpose. Hours passed, until the discreet chime of the kitchen's clock. "Oh, midnight already..." "Come, let's get you washed." I guided a perfectly obedient Augustine up the stairs, soft and pliable between my hands. She did put up playful resistance in the shower, the water soaked through my clothes as I wrestled her to the ground. I wrapped my legs around hers, held her arms behind her back with one hand while the other had free access to her soapy body. Hazy memories, disjointed feelings and sensations. She shook in my grasp as my fingers brought her to orgasm, I kept on rubbing causing her to wriggle and whimper. I stared at the grey braid, lying on the wet floor like a loose rope... The next memory is that of being naked on the purple bed, wrapped tightly around her, teasing and tickling her. She moaned and giggled into my ear, sometimes her tired struggles would shake our bodies, pressed skin to skin... We spent most of yesterday hungover... *** "I used to love these things... I still do." The mittens are as snug and comfortable as ever, the sensation always sends me back to that time, to *past Gwen*'s memories. Out of everything I used to own, there are part of the very few I brought with me. Augustine tightens the straps around my wrists, the padlocks click closed. I can't help but picture her as a boxing coach helping me put the gloves on, only the headgear left and I'll be on the ring... She opens the padded hood, the thick leather is stiff, tense, one needs to thrust their face inside, at which point it clings onto it, naturally. I take a deep breath before doing so. Tight, dark, silent. The zipper behind my head closes, increasing the pressure, the collar strap around my neck snaps shut. Breathing is easy yet it feels difficult, one forgets about the ability to take anything but small gulps of air. My body is guided into position, spread face down on the bed, limbs stretched at the threshold between discomfort and pain. Weight, movement, tension, pressure... Her hands pressing against my bare back surprise me. It is her way of paying me back -- except the electrodes stuck to my crotch are heavy in threats and promises... The hood dulled every sensation including touch, I knew she massaged me because of the defuse relaxation it brought me, unable to tell exactly where is was coming from. The electricity bit me, from every direction at once, intense, immediate agony. Relaxation, pain, pleasure poured into me from unknown sources -- from the mysterious world outside of the hood. Constant stimulations prevented me from zoning out as I liked to do. The hood made it impossible anyway, it was always there, tight, suffocating, smothering any thought. It forced me to experience every single second of bondage as such, in a way nothing else did. Eventually, the hood came off. Sensations flooded back in, sound, sight, touch -- all at once, making me dizzy. Warm body pressed against mine, blurry shapes. I laid on my side and my attempts to move soon taught me I was still securely restrained. Augustine had threaded herself inside of my bound arms, intertwined her legs around mine. "Thirsty?" She slid the plastic tip between my lips and let me suck the water in. "Feeling better?" I bent my arms, pressing our breasts together, and used this momentum to roll on top of her. "I'm on top now." As if in slow motion, I saw her hand reach for the black box and turn the frequency knob, then the power one. I winced from the ramping pain in my crotch, like needles piercing the tender flesh between the electrodes. The pain froze me in place, leaving Augustine free to easily reverse the position. "Not for long." She lowered the power back to a more bearable yet noticeable level. The weight of her body soothed me. "Augustine, how did you know about... the yearly results?" "When I tied you in the bunker, I took the liberty of checking your backpack, your ID was in there. That's also how I knew your name." "Crafty. Feels like an eternity ago, like it happened to someone else..." I looked up at her. Admiration, desire, sadness. I saw her submissively naked on the wet shower floor, for the first time in the forest, I remembered her wounded flesh under my fingers. I pressed her against me once again, using the clunky mittens to rub her back. *** Every pleasure feels bittersweet. Soon it will be over, I will go back to the past life -- maybe I will become *past Gwen* again. I have accepted it because it is what Augustine wishes. She has saved my life, she has been good to me without bounds... and with bounds too. I try to muster whatever courage and desire I can find to go back out there. I don't want to disappoint her. She told me she will visit whenever she can if I don't move too far away... Augustine got me a laptop. It was one of the very few things I had left in the old apartment, a laptop on the floor. Maybe the landlord took it, maybe it made its way to the police. There was nothing of interest in there... I am more thankful than happy, it means reconnecting with the outside world. Over the last few months I seldom thought about it, computers, internet, work emails. The house itself is far from everything and doesn't get any mail. I never asked Augustine yet she felt my curiosity. "I used the address in Rouen for everything. Paper mail is never urgent anyway, if it were it would be a call or an email instead." "My father was a very secretive man. His favorite sentence was *they don't need to know*, I heard him say it hundreds of times. As a child I thought it was some kind of old person obsession. I only understood later, when I had to hide my preferences..." I cherished these childhood stories set in an uncertain past full of Bibles and crucifix. I tried to picture Augustine as a child, rebellious, mischievous, who shared the woman's wit and cheekiness. "People don't need to know where I live, nor who I live with..." *** Slowly I rebuild an identity from scratch, email address, bank account. News and informations from the broader world come flooding into my bubble. For the first time in months I had to power my phone, unanswered calls, just a few which quickly stopped. These mundane actions feel surreal. "Augustine, do you miss being controlled?" She looked in my direction, pensively. Her gaze went through me, peering at scenes of the past. I regretted asking, I didn't want to remind her of... She smiled. "A bit, but interests change with time. When I was younger I found the loss of control not only pleasurable but fulfilling, it was the only state that felt right, I didn't want anything else. You could say I was an addict..." "As things went on I slowly learned that fulfillment could be found elsewhere. I still loved being bound and helpless, but I did it for fun, for pleasure and not out of necessity. Eventually, it felt like the gaping hole inside of me had been filled, it wasn't essential anymore." Strange images came to my minds -- that of a young Augustine totally unlike the one I knew, anxious, sad, who relished every second spent restrained. A shadow sat on the bed beside her -- I cannot picture Elise as anything but a name -- her fingers tracing circles on the bound body, expertly, ruthlessly. I wonder how much of the Augustine I know is actually Elise... The shadow leaned down, whispering something to her ear. _"One day you will have to go back into the real world."_ "Looking awfully pensive." Slight dizziness as I came back to my senses. *** I still try to got out and exercise but the weather does not make it easy. A strong wind blows from the sea and waves of heavy clouds wash over the small forest. I inevitably come back stained with mud and soaked in cold rain. I wish I could start a new life further south, trade the Channel for the Mediterranean, but that would mean never seeing her again... Starting a new life, for some reason I have hasted this process, frantically. Why? The landlord is a short and pudgy man, red-faced and white-haired with a faint northern accent. Just like that I am thrust back into the *real world*, a scribble at the bottom of each page, a date, a name. A small apartment, a small rent... Everything happened so fast, like in a dream. Augustine smiles sadly. *** We drove back to the house. It is not far. I settled for the closest city that had a vacant position for a teacher. Augustine was silent -- I felt guilty for rushing things. Only now did I discover how unprepared I really was. "Come Gwen." She led me to her room, to the purple bed, soft and pillowy. Her arms wrapped around me from behind, her legs hooked inside of mine. Her cool breath tickled the back of my neck. "Hey, look." She placed something metallic in my hand, keys. "This will always be your home. You can come back whenever you wish." "Thank you, for everything." "Of course when I come home and find the naughty intruder I will be very angry. You will need to placate me with massages..." "Augustine, you should have been selfish. You saved my life, you can have me. You should have kept me as a pet, forever..." "It is a young people's belief to think that anything can last forever. People change. You would have gotten bored eventually, or I would have." I wrapped my arms around hers. Working, cleaning, buying groceries, living, all of it was easy. "Besides, you can still be a week-end pet, if schedule allows." *** The apartment already has furniture. I will move in the same way I had moved out, with nothing but a backpack. Augustine insists that I take some of her old clothes, I might accept.
Silly girl, didn't you forget something important?
The rectangular package was wrapped in kraft paper. Two small books, two diaries. The red one still has a few pages left for me to write in, as for the other, it is wrinkled by humidity. *Past Gwen*'s memories. So Augustine did retrieve it, likely read it too. A testament to who I used to be, written by a teacher in a small apartment... I am not sure what to do with it -- nor if anything needs to be done. What used to be personal now feels so foreign, so disconnected from who I am. Maybe it is a good thing... *** I am exhausted. I have lost the habit of teaching, of interacting with colleagues, of walking in a busy street. It all seems strangely novel -- I assume it is what people feel when they come home after long vacations. Maybe I *am* coming back after long vacations by the sea...

Epilogue

 The bell rings and the classroom fills with a joyful rumble. I too am eager for the week-end, the weather over the last few days has been exquisite. *** I recognize her from afar, elegant business-woman behind her sunglasses. The joy of adults is spiked with sadness, it is not something the children need to know... "I see you have come to pick me up from school." "Indeed, get in the car young girl." The braid is slightly whiter, minuscule wrinkles stretch with the melancholy smile but the afternoon sun soon drowns out such meaningless details. "Are you kidnapping me ma'am?" "Oh, not for long." "A shame..." *** "You are on my bed." "Your bed? Would you look at that..." Before she can protest I push the ball in her mouth and secure the buckle. Her muscles tense and relax, trying every scheme to struggle in the firm restraints. Powerless, futile, the straps hold her in place, delightfully immobile. I lay my fingers on this body I know like my own, it responds like a well-tuned instrument. I play the notes of pain and pleasure -- lost in thoughts -- for the only audience I care to impress.