The Letter

You walk into the hardware store – that great cavern of delights, where so many seemingly innocent every day  items have for you that second, darker, more exciting use. You told your partner that you were “going to get that mirror” you had been meaning to buy for the last – well long time. But it’s an excuse. He knows it, you know it, its all part of the elaborate ritual that has developed over the time between you. Oh, don’t get us wrong – there is no secrets between you, none but the deepest and darkest fantasies not shared and explored – and played with. But this one has only been flirted with, teased gently into the light, toyed with, and then put away again – too deep, too intense – too scary.
 
Too selfish
 
But the moment you smile at the attendant at the door you know where you are going to be led, the tightening knot of excitement in your stomach, the warmth gathering in your loins is going to lead you to that special isle as surely as honey attracts a bee. And you will be stuck there.
 
You walk to that isle, sure in your mind that every single person that you pass can see straight into your mind, can discern what you want to do with those seemingly innocent items stacked there on the shelf. Uses you only half want to acknowledge yourself, uses that you have to acknowledge. Because they make you so hot just imagining them being used on you.
 
You stare at the shelf, lost in, thought? No, lost in a blankness, transfixed by the piles of tape in front of you, the piles of “painting supplies”. Painting is furthermost from your mind. Brown packaging tape shiny, thin, non stretch, and smelling so …. Rolls of cloth duct tape, the tuff stuff, thick, heavy, sticky, in escape able….. And the Insulating tape – dark, dark, black as night, so shiny, so smooth, so….. Seductive
 
Every time you come into this store you pass down this isle – stare at the rolls, and dream , and wish, and then dismiss from your mind. For a start they are soooooooooo expensive, and the budget is tight. And he was only half joking when… “ if you bought home that much tape I'd be forced to use it all, all at once young lady!”
But now you have the money – the windfall burning in your pocket. And the fantasy burns so bright “ if I bought home that much tape –I could get him to...”
No, you don’t want to confront that yet, yet the excitement that makes your very limbs ache tells you that if you reach out to those piles now , if you actually purchase the instruments of your deepest dark –IT WOULD HAPPEN. He loved you enough to ensure that. And it was why you loved him –because you know he knows you. And maybe, he wants it too.
 
Do you feel guilty as you sweep the rolls, and rolls of tape into the large plastic shopping basket, the basket getting heavier and heavier. Do you have second thoughts as the money –money that could be used so much more usefully gets handed across. No, you only feel a mind filling euphoria, you are going to do it, really do it. You almost wish the young girl at the checkout could guess what the tape is for , so that you can boast – I dare, I dare to do what my logic screams not to. You race home, prizes rolling gleefully about in the boot, soon it will happen. Lust has no logic
 
Maybe you should think about this , before you take the plunge. But you don’t think this, you are born this. Age 5, wrapping yourself into a tight sausage in your bed sheets. Age 11, while the rest of the kids taped each others pencil cases into masses of sticky tape –you let them tape your fingers and hands. Age 17, and that 1st DVD – curse of the mummies tomb. And then he came along... No, no need to analyse, just a crushing need to do it.
 
He smiles that wicked grin as you enter the  room –your play room. He is aware as you of those betraying nipples, pointy and hard, of your scent, of your excitement.
“As we agreed?”
“As we agreed –no going back”
You slide into the white disposable overalls, the cotton feel light and soft on your skin. The zip is loud in the silence, competing with your hard breathing. The suit looks totally out of place, dumpy, ill fitting. But you know that the tape sticks too it with an unforgiving grip, the cotton absorbs sweat, and it allows no sliding of the arms at all. No going back means no going back
 
A few, impatient moments,  as he fiddles with the packaging tape dispenser. You stare transfixed again at the instrument of your imprisonment –how can something so slim, so thin hold you so well? It begins. You lift your arms –and strips are applied around the wrists. You drop them , and the tape attaches the wrists to your hips. He is busy now, work man like, wrapping a parcel, maybe for postage, maybe for storage. It does not matter, he will be very, very thorough. You have played this game before –but not too deep, not as deep as this. You both know what to do.
 
The tape is applied just above the breasts, and you begin to turn on the spot, the tape firmly descending down the body as you provide the resistance to pull it off the roll. You are the instrument of your own capture. Your breasts feel strange, compressed, flattened as the tape descends, further down, further down. Submission frequently means actually in control
 
You occasionally stop, its hard not to get giddy. Strange how much you actually control this surrendering of control. Its an illusion. The moment you said “no going back” you were lost. Were found. Isn’t this what its really about? Finding yourself?

God, you are so damn horny –but its too late now, your arms are going, crushed against your sides. You extend your fingers –he tut tuts. A small ball into each fist, and the tape turns your hands into useless, yet comfortable clubs. He's at your waist now, you’ve stopped turning, and the sound, that delightful sound of the tape ripping off the roll gains speed, intoxicating speed. You wish for a moment he would just stand and kiss you, but its not going to happen, the women is disappearing fast, being replaced by a shiny brown package, parcel, OBJECT.

You shiver. You want him to stop, you want him to never stop, and now the knees are together, and balance is at a premium. He leans you gently against the wall, and you take the strain on the back of your head, still co- operating fully on your capture, still blindly diving into the darkness, into the you. He's coming back up again, a third roll of packaging tape now, no possibility of gaps, of air leaks. You are intensely aware of the bareness of your feet –they feel so much more exposed, out of place. It won’t feel right until they too are gone. The belly sucks in, and the tape holds it there, and if one did want to touch those oh so hard nipples now, there is no chance, another layer of the plastic covers them like armour.

“Hows that?’

Everything you feel, everything you ever dreamed off, fantasised about, wanted, and what is yet to come can be easily answered. You half gasp the answer –the tape is so tight about your chest. “Nice”

“No going back?” 

A half shake of the head, no there is no going back now. Either bondage is tight –or its not bondage.
 
He takes yet another roll,  it’s the clothe tape, 100 mph tape they call it here. At the moment you sense you can bend quite a bit, this material is semi rigid when applied properly, when applied in bulk. And you bought a lot of it. A lot.

The first strips are vertical, from shoulders to toes, one after the other, vertical, then crossing over. The sound is so loud, and you grunt as the pressure is applied, little hops as you struggle for balance. He grabs you easily, turns you around, forehead now the balancing point, more vertical pieces. Empty cardboard rolls are starting to litter the room. Back again, and now the wrapping continues, down, down, around and around. Breasts just a lump, a slight rise, gone. He goes down, and back up again, stiffening, strengthening, reinforcing. Sweat and moisture trickle down your thighs. You imagine yourself as a post –certainty you have as much movement as one
 
Tape is good for sealing in freshness.
 
“And now we seal you in”

The insulating tape. You love the smell of it, the smoothness of it, the stretch in it. Again you wish he would kiss you, but you sense that to him you hardly exist any more as his woman, now you are just a technical task to accomplish. You recall those words that have rung in your mind seemingly forever –once he begins, you are just a product to be dealt with, or disposed off. And you want this. As dark as this goes,  you want this. Not once, not twice, but three times the layers are applied, airtight, moisture tight, movement impossible, a light sucking black crystallite, just a reddening face above it, encompassed in the hood of the suit. Effortlessly he picks you up –and now you experience just how truly helpless you are, and places you on top of the table, head overhanging the end.

It does not take long and your feet too are part of the mass, welded in place, toes forced down wards. Finally he does kiss you, a long lingering kiss, of love, and worry, and devotion. And you realise just briefly how selfish this is, how hard it might be on him, and wonderful this is that he would do it for you. His will imposed, his to dispose.

But he remains all business. The tube goes into your mouth, 2 foot of rigid plastic. And the process begins on your head, tape from a shoulder, over the crown, to the other. More from your back, over to your chest. Then even more, and the head is rigid. The tube is sealed, no more air shall enter your nose, all depends upon him now,  the one you trust. A last glimpse of light, and the soft pads go down, and then the world fills with the sound of tape, packaging, cloth, and finally the hiss of the insulating.
 
Silence
 
No movement. Cautiously you try to move, to even expand your chest. Nothing gives. Nothing.

You cannot hear him any more, your world is dark and silent, and tight, Oh so tight. Time passes. You want to struggle, to test your bondage, to test the embrace, a little voice says no –what if we make a gap, what if we break the magic? But it involuntarily tries to, seeking relief from the all encompassing pressure –and you find none. Shudders. You truly are trapped, You are a package. A mummy,  only the tube between you and the world.

The excitement builds,  its going to really happen. He picks you up, disorientation as he carries you –a stiff black package to the back yard. Carefully he lays you down, and even through the many layers you can feel the rough soil against your back, lightly brushing your shoulders as he fits you into your hole.
Even in the darkest times, even when you dared tell him, you never called it your grave. Of course you cannot see what is happening, but you lie there knowing full well what is about too. You dug this hole, you gave him the letter.
 
Be careful what you wish for
 
When this is done, and he opens it, then you will know if love truly can die, or live forever. The choice is no longer yours. Stiffly –even more stiffly than the tape that  holds you –you hold your body rigid as he shovels the dirt in. The pressure builds, and builds. You fight the panic, and let lust run wild as you feel yourself going deeper and deeper. Dirt piles onto your face – breathe , you must breathe –and relieved you find that you can. 

Silence. Total immobility. A package hidden away in a secret place. Above you , you know what he is doing, once a slight knock on the breathing tube confirms it. Your hole is under the barbecue, which rests on large sheet of plywood hiding the patch of bare earth marking your prison., the tube discreetly sticking out of a small hole in the wood. The barbecue is lit, and he - if all goes to plan, is now preparing a meal for the many guests due to arrive soon. Held in total bondage, you are  now a prisoner of convention, of socialising as well.
 
Minds in bondage can but wander. It is impossible to tell the passage of time, only laboured breathing, and steady, creeping numbness mark its passage. Is it hours later? A little liquid enters the tube –a drink. And you know, as incredible as it seems, somewhere above you –on top of you, up there in the light, he stands –sneaking a drink down your link to the world. And no one knows you are there.
 
And the mind turns to the letter. It’s a simple letter. Only to be opened once the guest are gone, when the beer has been drunk, when its time to dig you up again. In it you tell him simply that you love him. And trust him. And you want to be with him forever. As his mummified slave. And you think hard about that line, those words that you wrote in excitement, when maybe you should have written them with clear logic. His mummified slave forever.

And you realise that you are truly trapped –forever. For if he really wished  “to have a mummified slave forever’ 

Why would he even bother to dig you up?

 
 

30.08.06