Not Stockholm

A proper ball-gag must have
been outside the budget,

it's the idle thoughts, mental
randomness, that stick with a
person after something traumatic,

Have my toes always been this
much in need of having their nails
clipped? I can practically feel them
leaving little piercing slashs wherever
I flex my feet.

After a while, even wadded up leather
apron tastes pretty good as it sits in
your mouth and makes intimate friends
with your tongue and lips. Friends
that they won't be becoming anytime soon.

Not that there's been any abandonment,
mind you, or neglect--outside of limited meals,
limited bathroom breaks, and oh-so-very limited
space with in which to lie...or it it lay?

Whatever.

Other than my being here, it seems to be just
another day. I can smell the Downy as laundry
gets done. I can hear the muffled panting of
bodies in heat, and that special sort of squeak
bedsprings make when someone is thrusting
into someone else over and over again.

Or maybe she's riding him?

I lean back and try to do something other
than sleep, taking heart in the smallest of
things.

They asked me what I wanted for dinner.
My music tastes seem to mesh well with theirs.
The last time I was taken through the work room,
I could see that all the assorted knives, drills,
and unidentifiable (but nasty looking) tools
have been put away.

That's got to be good, right?