Reflections Pt. 01

The flicker of the torch light, and the whisper of the wind against the canvas of the tent could almost be considered soothing, perhaps even romantic, were it not for the quiet sobs of the other captives.

The handlers allow tears, as long as they're quiet. They also allow screams during punishment, as long as there's no words in between. Sounds won't earn a reprimand, but any kind of speech is another matter.

Every now and then, a captive will forget these rules. Their cries reach a certain volume, or they blurt something out in a fit of longing for a previous life that is now lost to them.

Sometimes I understand them, even if it's not my native tongue - take 'mother' for example - it's recognisable in most European languages. Sometimes I don't, as their language comes from a more exotic place than I'm familiar with, but the sentiment is still the same, as are the consequences.

For first time offenders, the crack of a whip against the metal bars is usually enough. This happens often enough that I no longer stir when it occurs.

I resent the repeat offenders, as they are harder to ignore as they're dragged from the tent to avoid any further disruption to the other captives. Most of the time they return, the evidence of their punishment in shades of purple, red or blue mottling their skin. Occasionally they do not, so I try not to dwell on their fate.

It may sound heartless to say I resent them, but only to someone who has failed to understand or accept our fate. I am not the only captive who follows the rules and remains silent at night. While few accepted their fate as quick as I, for most it doesn't take long. More of us lay silent than not, the threat of a beating is all we need to beat us into submission.

Tears are a waste of precious hydration that we sorely need during the sweltering days that follow these endless nights. We also need the handlers to tolerate us if we wish life to be tolerable. Do I miss my previous life? Yes. But if I ever hope to return, I have to survive. And to survive means I must follow the rules of my enslavement,

But I resent those who disturb my sleep, because the nights are endless, and there is nothing else to do but reflect or remember. Reflecting on my decisions is less painful - other memories could lead to tears.

Decisions. I never liked them. In my previous young life, I allowed others to make them for me, enjoying the peace of knowing the responsibility was taken from my control.

"Where should we eat tonight?"

"You choose."

"What are you drinking?"

"I'll have what you're having."

"Red or white?"

"Surprise me!"

You get the picture. From the trivial to the defining moments, I gave that control to others, riding the wave of consequences wherever it took me, and for the most part it served me very, very well. At least, until the last decision I made.

* * * * *

The space is vast but dim, and packed with bodies. Shadows cast faces into sharp relief, and candlelight flickers off polished, dark wood surfaces. I am anonymous, just another face in a sea of others, my companions for the evening scattered around the bar with the aim of finding another to entertain their mind and body for the night.

Like every other night before this one, I nurse a drink at the bar, and wait. Sometimes nothing will happen - a friend strikes out, and returns with their tail between their legs, asking to split a cab home. Occasionally, a companion will ask me to warm their bed for the night, and more often that not I'm happy to oblige - I love to please others.

Or, like many other nights, a stranger will strike up a conversation, and thus the fate of my evening falls into their hands.

Sometimes it's just an entire evening of mediocre, or mind blowing, conversation. Other times an evening of mediocre, or mindblowing, fucking. But I roll with it, excited by the unexpected, and at peace with the lack of responsibility.

Tonight, my fate is decided by an awareness of someone watching me.

When I meet his eyes, I'm pleasantly surprised - I don't exactly do badly, but leaving the approach up to others means I don't always end up with my idea of physical perfection. I hold his gaze just long enough for him to see that I'm interested, but not so long that he thinks I'm challenging him. It's always a balance - I want them to know I'm interested, but I also want them to know I need them to take the lead.

I know my message has been received by the warmth I soon feel as he presses up gently against my back. He's tall - towering over me, despite my added height from the bar stool, and I'm immediately turned on by the idea of how easily he could overpower me.

His easy smile, the scent of sandalwood, and the contrast of light hair against his olive skin and dark eyes has me hooked, even before he goes ahead and orders a drink for me.

My fate was sealed from the moment I set eyes on him. The gentle but purposeful way he touches me - steering me to a quiet table in the corner, a hand under my chin to meet his eyes when I blush, another hand at the back of my head and stroking the nape of my neck... just perfect.

So when he eventually dips his finger into a plastic bag and offers it to me, I don't think twice about sucking every granule of white powder off the tip of it. And then repeating this over, and over again.

The night gets hazier and hazier, the flashes of consciousness fewer and farther between. The sting when he bites my lip as he kisses me. Skilled fingers pinching a nipple as we wait in an elevator. The cool feeling of the wood against my back as he lifts me up and presses me against his hotel room door.

Even the handcuffs on the table are no cause for alarm - remember that I like to please people, so being restrained, teased and denied is hardly foreign to me. So as I suck his cock slowly, enjoying the salty taste against my tongue, and he moans that I'll make such a good slave as he pushes my head to exactly where he needs it, it seems like nothing more than harmless foreplay.

And then, almost nothing after that, besides a feeling of falling and a few flashes of a bright light above me and a pain on and off in my throat. Unfamiliar voices cut through the darkness occasionally, but I can't make sense of what they're saying.

The first sensations as I begin to come around from my slumber are a cramp in both my legs, and a rawness in the back of my throat that I can't explain. My vision is blurred, the air around me is hot and dry, and the surface beneath me is hard and unforgiving. There's noise, but I can't make sense of it.

I notice an ache in both my wrists and ankles, and a heaviness in my limbs and neck. A smell of burnt wood, incense, with an unpleasant underlying scent that I can't quite place. I feel desperately thirsty.

I realise I'm lying on my side, curled up in a foetal position. My wrist and ankles are chained together, with a chain attached to metal bars of some kind. Something tight is encircling my neck.

My vision is still a little blurry, but I can make out the outline of a cage, roughly the size of a large dog crate. There are many voices around me, spoken in an unfamiliar tongue, so I try to call out to them. My voice is weak and raspy, but the real shock is a loud crack, then an impact of something hard enough to shake the cage, and some kind of command barked at me in a language I don't understand.

Panic begins to set in, and I begin to struggle as hard as I can, restricted by the heavy chains and weakened by the oppressive heat and extreme thirst. Adrenaline sharpens my senses and I realise I'm naked, aside from my chains.

With my newly improved vision, I take stock of the injuries I'm able to see from this restricted position, realising that I'm covered in bruises and scrapes, plus needle marks on my arms and hands. I can feel more scrapes and bruising on my back, and another jolt of panic comes when I realise that from the head down, I've been completely stripped clean of any hair. Despite my superficial injuries, it seems I've been scrubbed clean, with my skin faintly smelling of chlorine.

When I realise the other sounds are of girls wailing, sobbing and fighting their restraints, fear completely takes over and I begin to thrash against my chains and try to scream, although my voice is nothing more than a croak. A figure approaches my cage, and although I can't understand their shouting, or see beyond their legs, their message is loud and clear when I realise the cracking noise and heavy impact against the bars is a whip. I freeze, and close my eyes, but the sounds around me don't stop.

* * * * *

I could tell you more about the first couple of days. How initially, with a fresh batch of captives, the guards had to keep us in our cages whilst they taught us the rules, and the humiliation we endured without being able to access a bathroom. Learning to drink from a water bottle fixed to the outside of our cages, like we were rodents. The jeers, and the roving eyes of the guards over our naked bodies. The gnawing hunger.

How the noise at nighttime was the worst. Almost everyone cried in the beginning, although I never did - I felt frozen into a state of shock & submission. How we learned to adjust and accept by watching the fate of those who didn't obey.

I very quickly came to accept that for now, this is my reality. But I hate the endless nights, which remind me of the terror of the first, and the time they give me to reflect on how my desire to leave decisions up to others has lead to me losing my freedom entirely.

I hate the reminder of my naivety - how my desire to be dominated meant I failed to notice someone that was too good to be true, and fell straight into their trap.

But what I hate most about the nights is the creeping fear that sets in about what happens next.