She shuts me up in the cell. In reality, it’s a shallow alcove in the wall, lined with a dark, wiry carpet, about 3 feet across and 12 inches deep. It’s closed off from the rest of the room by a thick wooden stable door, which also has other openings in it, allowing her access to all areas.
She hooks me to the sides by my wrists and ankles. A soft blindfold presses against my eyes, and mufflers sit on my ears like two plastic ring doughnuts.
She can do whatever she wants with me. Not just in this box.
*
It’s odd to come and see her, and then spend these precious moments not seeing her. But why should I expect anything else in this topsy-turvy place?
*
I’ve come to view this box as our relationship in miniature, if you can call it a relationship. I never leave this box. I’m always confined, in her eyes, in the role of a slave. She’s not interested in who else I might be, except in so far as I might be useful to her. I may (and will) become less to her, but I won’t become more. So I carry this box with me wherever I go, both hating and loving it.
Sometimes I can see that these restrictions serve a purpose: they impose a mental bondage which can, once in a while, paradoxically set me free. At other times I just think they’re a pissing shame, and that we hold ourselves back from something much better. But I could be wrong.
I never see her clearly. I only ever hear a muffled, distorted version of her voice.
Except that’s not the whole story. Because I have been known to peek.
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