Apr 2011

My StringsLost in transcendence.

A strange experience that is not my own...

Patterns, shapes everywhere I look. The world is made from all those shapes, fitting together, creating lines. Lines that trace, cross, follow and divide. It can be tiring to see it all, like dimly paths that guide me, attracting my attention and holding it without remorse.

Just imagine, lines going over your fingers, tracing their shape. Then from your fingers, where they touch a surface, more lines spring, spreading out over the desk, to the wall and beyond. All around, lines that connect the floor to my feet, to the chair, all surrounding objects. Interrupted by things that are out of place. Such little effort to pick it up and put it in its proper location.

But the hold is not just a faint line on the wall. So many of them reach out to me, like ropes, to wrap around my arms, wrists, legs, ankles, waist and even my neck. To pull me forward, sideways or just to hold me. Most of the times they aren't very tight, but still present. Making my movements, looking fluent and effortless for an outsider, almost a chore.

But is that all?

The sensations of the ropes is a nice one. Constantly feeling bound, hemp rubbing my skin to cause shivers of pain and pleasure all over. It's almost too difficult to keep composure when in my mind's eye the red streaks taint my skin for all to see. But no one else ever does. A secret I keep, my movements still apparently unimpeded by the threads that keep me.

I wish it was different.

I wish for someone to reach out and grab my strings, to hold them and pull me. To feel them tighten around my neck, wrists and ankles. To be suspended and bask in the presence of someone strong enough. To feel the rough ropes rub along my sensitive spots. To feel them hurt me and control me.

Now and then when someone walks through a room I am in, I feel echoes of this happening. Or outside, where many people have to move around on their own, it happens as well. It is like they step on the strings of my being. Little twangs of teasing that echo shortly in my life. No, I do not want them or that. Those twinges only serve to remind me of the lack.

I wish to be suspended in those threads. To feel them cutting into my skin. Everywhere, from my lips to between my legs. I want to squirm in them, wet them with my fluids. To feel scared and taken, but also kept and daring. I need someone to pull my strings, to decide where I must move. To feel my body move with no choice to call my own.

The ropes would take me down, low to the ground, to serve.

From there directions, simple plucks on my being, will move me in the right place. Caressing my own skin, or the one I serve. To give a display for other's amusement or elegant servitude.

It is my wish to stay there.

Be careful what you wish for, they say.

They were so right and yet so wrong.

He found me. He found my strings. Played them like I was an instrument. Unable to move but a muscle without his desire or command. Every word he used, every movement caused vibrations all over. Not just arousal but physical needs and burns that were calling his name.

All time before this moment faded away. All cares and worries were no more. At his feet I am more than just content. More than spending time to avoid the loneliness.

In almost no time at all, he managed to play me so well that my fingers found their way to his skin. Showing their agility, endurance and tenderness. And when the time came for his fingers to find me, I was completely paralyzed. All the threads collided to strangle me with so much emotion that I dare not interfere. Feeling safer than ever and never wanting to leave.

I belong.