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Lilly has been alone here for hours. It is her first time in this place, she does not like its smell. It is the smell that comes with no continuity, many tenants. She does not care about that, this is just a convenience. Her hands are fastened together with the plastic ties that the police use to subdue angry, drunk young men. Around her neck is a collar which has a heavy metal ring attached to it, the ring sits at the nape of her neck and to it, in turn, the plastic ties are fixed. Lily is in a lonely full-nelson. She cannot free herself, although Lily does not know this for sure, she has not tried. She kneels. Not because of any restraint, but because those are her orders, and to be caught out of position upon his return would mean her dishonour and a loss of hard won trust. Her knees hurt, the floor is hard and she has not moved, her toes are curled beneath her feet, exactly as instructed. She leans forward slightly, working muscles in her back, almost at tipping point. The pins and needles have spread up her legs almost to her thighs. There have been times in the last few hours when she wondered whether this would be worth it, if when he returned she would get the release she craved. Not now. Now she knew he would be here soon.
About half an hour ago the timers that Michael had installed here had started to kick in. He had not spent a fortune, these were a practicality, nothing more. Just plug in switches that let the current connect at the desired moment. First the electric fire in the corner, it was not in her field of vision but the click and then hum were familiar to her. It was nice to feel warm again as the first thin radiated heat arrived at her naked flesh. It had been cold, but she would not ask for heat for herself. This warmth was for him, so that he would feel no chill upon disrobing. Next came the stereo, switched to radio, tuned between channels, white noise, volume at maximum. There had been a sensation of passing time until this point. Filtered street noise from outside and even barely recognisable television programmes from the flats below. Now this was taken from her. She understood that the sensory deprivation was supposed to disorient her, that there was supposed no be a falling sensation as the real world was sucked away by the constant drilling monotony of high decibel static. The first time there had been. Locked in a cupboard, surrounded by the unexpected white noise she had become lost, fallen into a hole inside herself, been terrified. Not anymore. It was her one small rebellion that she holds herself strong now, held herself rigid because she knows that if the noise follows the heat, then he will soon arrive. The sensation is inverted, instead of falling she starts to rise. The skin of her whole body coming to life, filling with blood. The pit of her stomach tightening, the heat spreading to her pussy, and her juices beginning to flow. The sexual rush acts as a painkiller. The screaming in her thighs starts to quieten.
Time passes.
She starts to see him in her imagination. The car pulling up outside, crunching gravel. The satisfied look that she knows will come over his face. He loves owning her, she is sure of that. As much as she loves being owned. It seems ridiculous that there was a time before Michael. That time, when she does look back on it, is grey, anaemic. Kansas rather that Oz, Lily had told her Sister when they were still speaking. Since he arrived she has got blood in her veins, a secret smile, a place to go when she is pretending to listen to a boring customer or angry boss. She thinks about his eyes, the fact that they always seem to be on her. That they weigh her, warn of punishment for petty misdemeanours and promise reward for obedience, supplication. She thinks about his self-confidence. Lily had asked him for a blindfold, wanting to please him by giving all she could. He had said no, and in her excitement an inexperience had thought this not enough. She had asked for a hood, to make it clear how low she would make herself. His response had been tell her she would not need one. She would look straight ahead until told to move. She would have to show discipline. There would be tests, and if she wanted to remain his then she would have to pass them. Girls could and had been passed out of service. That would be the end, of course. He had been right, she had not needed a cover for her eyes. The thought of looking over her shoulder at the room behind her was powerful, but if he were there then this would all finish.
More time passes.
The pain in her legs starts to spread again. The churn and hiss of static grows also. It starts to feel heavy, like it actually has a presence in the room. Lily is starting to sink, she thought she wouldn’t, but she is. Even though she felt, at least, in control of time, that too is slipping. The noise starts to broil around her , and the idea that the room is actually on a ship keeps flitting across her consciousness. This is of course absurd, but there it is again, the floor tilting just slightly, a faint sway. In the white noise she starts to hear a creaking, like ropes stained to breaking point. The ship is sinking, she knows that were she to look at the widows, there would be water pushing on them, the light from the surface fading. Lily can hear the rush of water entering the rooms below, hear the people dying, hear her neighbours calling for help. Darkness calling. The weight of the radio noise grows, and it starts to feel as if a world of static is above, pushing down upon her, that she will die here in this room, with this gushing heavy power crushing her.
Time.
Lily is back in the real world. Of course the world is still here, of course Michael will be along soon. The noise is still here, but that is why he makes it play, to make her forget who she is, so that she can just be his thing. If only she could explain to him that that is exactly what she wants, to lose the world and give herself to him, to be his chattel, to be used and valued and even perhaps needed, perhaps loved, the way a man loves a favourite watch. She loves him. She loves his shoulders, muscular and strong, his fingers on his broad hands. Lily saw him for the first time sitting in a café, reading a newspaper, and now it seems that he knew at once that she would give herself to him. That seems strange, but he had looked up as she entered the coffee shop, over his glasses and held her gaze. Held it longer than could be appropriate, and then continued to stare, even when she had looked away several times. She had been too startled to do anything at first, taking a seat with her back to him. Breaking whatever had passed between them. She had composed herself, ordered coffee from that waiter, turned, but he was gone. On his table nothing but a cup, and leaning against it a business card. Obviously she had taken it, quickly before the table was cleared. Heavy and an off white, it was embossed simply with his name and a mobile phone number. That had been the start of the journey that brought her here, via a string of broken encounters, powerful sessions that had taught her what her beautiful athletic, young body was actually for. Not for the awful torrid mechanical pumping of every other man. Not for the sex as punctuation to real, boring dragging life. He had taught her that the world could be filled with sexuality, that her every act could be a devotion, and that any deviation was a gamble and that the world could be exciting, that she could be free. He would be here soon, and then he would take her further. This, she had to remember, was only preparation. He would be here soon and until then she should try and remain in control. Ignore that crushing noise, focus on her sex, the pleasure building there and so dampen then throbbing in her thighs, the pins and needles in her legs, the pain. He would be here soon, perhaps he was here already.
Another age. An hour? Two? No matter how hard she tried to control herself, reality was starting to spin, beginning to morph, become fluid.
For an indeterminate period Lily has been convinced Michael is behind her, sitting in the chair she had carried up the stairs for him, waiting. She knows it is stupid to think that. Is she laying traps for herself? Is she simply falling into the traps he himself has laid? The temptation to look over her shoulder is growing. That has to be fought, has to be ignored, has to be. Please be there, she thinks. Please. Her position is becoming impossible to maintain. The muscles in her legs starting to spasm involuntarily. Because she is leaning forward slightly, the effort needed to remain upright is increasing. Her reserves are low, her energy sapped. She is strong, has trained herself to be, but everybody has a limit. It would be so easy to sit back, just for a second, rest, recharge herself. The heat is also starting to build, sweat beginning to trickle between her shoulder blades, pool at the base of her thighs behind her knees. Her heart rate is rising too, and her breathing.
Is he there? He is! He must be, he must! Lily wants to shout his name, to beg him to hold her, to take her. It is no longer a matter of control, no longer rising or falling, she is starting to fail, starting to lose control, starting to give up. At the same time the need to be touched is killing her, the need to be released from the ties, but also from her biology, she has to come, has to release, has to be allowed to touch herself if he is not going to touch her, touched by anybody. Dealing with the mounting need, the pains that come and go like tides, the waves of sexual pleasure and angst that are fighting each other across her whole body, are too much. Too much. Lily is starting to lose herself, staring to become little more than an animal, starting to topple. That brings her back to reality in an instant, she is going to fall, forward, onto her face and she does not even know if she cares. There is nothing that she can do to stop that fall. The whirlwind of static seems to be growing around her, now it seems to have a rhythm, syncopated with the different but continuous rhythms in her thighs and her pussy. The pulse of her blood has become the pulse of the room, of her breathing of her sex, her need to obey, not to lose face, to be released from her pain. It has all become one, huge unbelievably strong vortex, one pleasure indistinguishable from the next pain, need or fear, all together rushing, starting in her loins but swirling out from her into the world connecting her with everything , making her one with all that is good and bad, making her feel like she is going to die, going to become raised, experienced. Making her Alive.
Lily falls.
Of course he is there to catch her, one gloved hand on her shoulder to steady her, the other , bare, already in her sex, releasing her.
“Michael…
“Master…,”
Lily has fallen.
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