Patience

        The days I can bear but at night I lie awake with the duvet stuffed between my legs, listening to my yearning body.
        When the moment has come I kneel by the door.
        My cunt cries warm tears that drip down my thighs.
        He walks up my garden path so slowly. How can he not hurry when my knees ache against the floor, my fingers are stiff from holding my arms behind my neck and my heart breaks for him every second I wait?
        Finally his hands stroke my hair.
        I fear the pain they can cause and yet, their touch makes me swell.
        I don’t dare look at him, just slightly move my head, hoping he will caress my cheeks, take my chin and lift it so I can welcome him with a smile.
        I open my mouth, waiting for his kiss.
        What he shoves between my lips is cold and hard. It locks my jaws wide-open and takes my breath away.
        I look up in shock.
        I was good! He shouldn’t …
        Our eyes meet.
        A fatal mistake but once it is done I keep staring at him.
        He seems more amused than angry. I drink from his eyes until he puts a blindfold over mine and the world goes black.
        He pulls me up on my feet. I stand, disoriented from being in the dark and dizzy from fighting for air.
        I feel his warmth, the soft breeze of a shadow his body casts over me.
        When I try to touch him he is gone.
        I hear him rummage through drawers and cupboards in my new kitchen. Nothing is where it should be. The idea of him being disoriented makes me giggle.
        Then he finds what he was looking for. At the sound of a cutting knife I stop giggling.
        His footsteps again. Then a sharp smell. My eyes water. I shake my head.
        I was good. I was good.
        ‘It doesn’t make a difference,’ he says.
        But …
        ‘I told you it would be pepper.’
        He slides the finely chopped pieces inside me.
        The tears dripping from my cunt turn into fire and my knees give in.
        I want to lie down but he lifts my arms above my head and ties them to the staircase.
        I want to cross my legs but he spreads them until my weight barely rests on my feet.
        The fight to keep my balance soaks my body in cold sweat.
        I wince when he attaches the clamps.
        ‘Hold still, dear,’ he whispers. ‘These are the mildest ones.’
        A small mercy. It will take a while until they hurt.
        The cane glides over my face, my shoulders, my breasts and my stomach.
        I was happy to buy it myself when he told me to.
        Now I dread its lightest tickle.
        Then he’s gone again.
        He must be somewhere in the room but I cannot feel him any longer.
        I can only feel myself: the pepper fire inside me roaring steady and hot, the clamps working their way deeper and deeper into my flesh, my arms stretched high above my head, going numb, saliva trickling down my chin.
        From the sofa I hear him turn the page of a newspaper.
        Is he not even watching me?
        It doesn’t matter.
        Just thinking of him will make me come.
        ‘You better not,’ he says.
        I take a deep breath.
        I try to relax.
        I wait.
        And I wait.
        Is he really reading?
        Is he not watching me at all?
        Is he going to return with the cane? Did he put on the gag so it will silence my screams? The blindfolds so it will hide my tears?
        Or is he going to have me stand still until I cannot bear the bite of the clamps and the shortage of air; the loss of sensation in my arms and the red heat between my legs?
        Is he going to have me stand still until I fall?
        Is all he desires today watching me faint?
        ‘Only one way to find out,’ he says.
        And he turns another page.