Das Tumble

Everything clambers for your attention in the absence of normal stimulus. Hot air, skin sticking with sweat, pain points from constriction. Tongue tacky from dehydration. Head pounding low with dizzy fear. Pressure on your ears, over your eyes, blocking everything.

You saw nothing of your assailants, and they ensured you continued seeing nothing. With muffs went the hearing. With binds went your ability to thrash.

Hot, heavy silence now. Pillowy darkness pressing up against your vision.

You arch, the only movement available to you. You feel the binds shift, suspect metal chains, but hear nothing from it. No clatter, no crinkle, rustling, creaking. Your brain senses the materials by touch and considers hallucinating the expected sounds for you, but you're not that far gone yet.

There's you heaving with breath, muffled whooshing, which comes faintly to you through the small bones in your ears connected to your jaw. There's the intermittent bass pounding of your heart, more feeling than sound, but occasionally too loud to bear.

All of it competes to be noticed. You fixate only on the tightness of the space.

Walls just far apart enough to hold you. You couldn't tell what was happening until you slid into place and the air went still after some movement from above. Limbs already pinned in by the binds but held still further by the physical boundaries.

The walls hold you closer than you've ever been held before. You could swear they're pressing in, but it's just you coming further apart.

Time stretches forever as you shift, pant, cry out. Weep into the foam-padded blindfold. Grind your teeth into the gag. You can't even form words to keep you company, just useless sounds joining the saliva soaking the cloth. Gut taut with sickly panic, teeth aching from gnawing.

And still nothing changes.

Your inner ear tells you you're upright, that your box is motionless. Why dump you in here? Are they not transporting you elsewhere? Are you stored for later use? Will you die here?

The air cools slightly, but its lingering sense of suffocating stillness remains. The wet breath and sweat become clammy, and you shiver from exhaustion, strain, waves of fear, tomb-like cold. Your organs send warning pangs up to your brain for water, food, more air, less tension, begging for movement of any kind.

At some point, the body surrenders its panic, nervous system collapsing in, and you can't hold your head up or eyes open. Neither of those things change your current experience. Have minutes become hours? Panic turns seconds into days. You doze against your will.

Nothing changes. You'd say something breaks in you each time you return to the thought, but it's a continual process, pieces ground smaller and smaller every time you check back.

When you at last come alert some hours later, it's the reverberation of footsteps.

The movement transfers through the material to you, closer until it's just before you. You can't hear them, how many, what they say. It doesn't matter. The water lost through your renewed tears can't be helped, either.

You can't believe how good it feels. All of it. Every bit of it. Moving through the air, tight hands dragging you, your body hitting the ground. Clothes being cut away. Gag being pried free.

The exposed skin is so sensitive that it hurts. It all hurts, and yet in contrast to the terror of deprivation, you drink it in. When the blade knicks you, you groan and struggle to feel enough shame at how deep and needy it hits you. The sound that you can barely hear rumbles up from your core, your guts, where the disgust and relief churn together.

When they pin your arms up out of their way by the wrists, you jackknife with animalistic fear. No, no, no, not restricted again, not tied up again–

And the punch to your stomach winds you, threatens to make you throw up bile. You suddenly feel grounded, leaden with ice cold seriousness, with real, practical fear. You don't need frivolous panic when your legs are spread and there are scissors or knives in their hands.

Clearly, they know their craft.

Whoever it is doesn't start right away. They peel back your ruined clothes and pin your limbs out of the way. Letting the cool air flow over you, your body intermittently tense on the hard floor and limp with exhaustion.

Water on your lips, and you drink.

A hand on your nape orienting your face, and you oblige.

Just a drop of water or a brush of their fingers makes you lurch, sick with relief, unable to resist relief, wanting more. Terrified of pain to come but desperate for every bit of contact.

All without warning, in total darkness and silence. Nothing but footsteps or shifting weight to hint at what's coming next.

They arrange you, and the pauses give the pacing of a photoshoot. You can't hear a thing, but you imagine it so clearly, you can almost hallucinate a real camera shutter. They pull your knees up. Click click. They tilt your chin to expose your neck. Click click. The last of your underwear is cut away, leaving nothing but restraints. Click click.

You're dizzy and scared, ashamed by your own arousal they carefully evoke. Fingers grazing erogenous edges with expert skill, just brushing where you fear most direct contact. Forcing your mind to fixate on what touch will come until your whole body is taut with anticipation.

Of course you get aroused. Of course they tease it out of you. Of course they make it worse and worse until your body is drooling in need and you're trembling in revulsion.

Then they use you. Properly grateful and warmed up, you make for a good fuck now. You don't know how long it goes on, how many, but who cares? The heat and pressure and breath against you, fingers digging into you hungrily, eagerly pulling at you that forces you to make sound you can't imagine.

Even when it hurts, it's ecstasy compared to your hours of motionless isolation. When you cum, you don't have shame left to feel, and it's not like they notice anyway.

And you dread it ending. Part of you knows with dead certainly you'll be going back.

You know what will happen. They clean you up, rinse you briskly, let you piss, then redress you in strange clothes.

It means you're being tied back up, sealed away. Back into the velvet, painful darkness. You beg and don't even know if they're affected, and the gag goes back in soon enough. Until then, you barter and bargain and try to offer obedience, servitude, anything.

"Honey can you-" on it!

"Sweetie could you-" don't need to tell me twice!