The Girl In The White Box.

She came in a big white box I wasn't allowed to touch. He put it on the dining table and went out for a run. The cats wandered over to it almost immediately. Sniffing and prodding. They seemed suspicious of the contents at first, swiping at the cardboard and jumping back as if they expected something to jump out, but when it didn't, they climbed on top of it and went to sleep. I watched from the side of the room, thinking about the moment when the decision to bring her home was made. It was only the previous evening, and I could not believe he found a store that would get or send him one so fast. The previous evening had been difficult. Well, as difficult as a sick reality you want with all your heart can be, which incidentally, is very difficult. 

We have a black leather stool of sorts, it's not quite ottoman and it's not quite stool, what it is, is extremely uncomfortable and sometimes he likes to have me kneel on it, bend over and touch the floor which he fucks me. It's a perfectly reasonable demand if it didn't come with several important contextual pieces of information and conditions. I had already spent several hours on my knees, and I'll say this, the best kept kept of the entire take-my-power community, is how hard it is to be on your knees for a long time. All I hear about it is good, sexy, devotional, beautiful things but it's the worst. You can completely destroy a person, if you just leave them on their knees for a few hours. No whips needed, no blades, no sex dolls ordered specifically to hurt a woman's heart. None of that. Just knees on the floor for a few hours. So, as I said, I had already been on my knees for a while, long enough that even my neck hurt, and the whole while I had something horrendous and made of glass shoved inside me. It's harder to be on your knees when you're trying to make sure glass doesn't fall out of you. It's *physically* harder. So it wasn't that I was unwilling to get on the stool, it just seemed uncomfortable. 

I can bear discomfort, I encourage people to constantly make me so, I just can't bear it without wriggling and shaking myself out of place if I am tired, beaten and broken. One of the conditions was that I cannot do that or make any sounds. That's always a condition with him. It's the weirdest, most specific thing about him that drives me crazy but also attracts me to him so much. I've met many sadists in my life, and many more assholes, usually they want to see and hear the impact they are having. They want to see and hear you struggle, scream, moan and cry. It's part of the joy and charm. Many of them would describe his obsession with silent stillness as a ridiculous thing, like hurting the lifeless. It's not that. It's not that I cannot have a reaction. It's controlled and minimised. It's an unobtrusive reaction. You really have to watch for it. Listen for it. It's as small as a sigh or the fluttering of an eye. It's the minimalism of being a reaction junkie. That's part of it. The other part is the rush of actually successfully enforcing something that shouldn't be physically doable. It shouldn't physically be possible for me to hold back screams, reflexes and tears. It's extraordinarily cruel to enforce that with punitive consequence. It's not an expectation one should even have, but I swear, I am able to do it somehow. For the most part. It's not a sure thing, but more than ninety percent of the time, I'm actually able to do it. This man really took my love for terror and ran with it. It's terrifying. He is, somehow, terrifying. He puts the fear of god in me. Well, not literally. 

But sometimes it fails. 

It fails when my entire body hurts and I just want to lie down, and he's being unnecessarily and unfairly unjust, and by the power of a construct of my own creation, I just have to take it. Then it fails. It fails when he makes me kneel on that stool, and bends me over, and it fails especially hard if he decides, that this already stressful situation for my body, is the moment he should go for the *wrong* hole. Then it fails, and I scream, and shake, and annoy him. I don't like annoying him, because nothing good comes after that. When I annoyed him that night, he was tolerant for a while, he hushed me. He pulled me back into place. He warned me. He brought me a pillow to scream and cry into so he didn't have to hear it. He got momentarily mad I didn't thank him for the pillow, I did, he just didn't hear me because I spoke into it, but it was only a few smacks so it was okay. It wasn't okay when I kept wriggling and audibly crying, though. I did it too much and I wouldn't stop. I couldn't stop. I love that he's managed to turn me into a person who gets visibly scared of consequence when they cannot control their reflexes. That's the dream. Maybe not *the* dream, but it's a dream. It's a nightmare in which you want to fuck, not live. When I couldn't and he would say wouldn't stop annoying him, he did something he never does. Instead of fucking me harder until I just pass out, he pulled out of me, put on his clothes and brought out his phone. I was instantly gutted. It was worse than the knees. Sometimes stopping is the worst thing that you can do to a person even when it may bring them relief. Sometimes what looks like mercy, is the most heartless act one could undertake. 

He brought out his phone to find out where he could buy a realistic looking sex doll. He did it, sitting right beside me, as I remained bent over that stool, and *he asked for my opinion* on the purchase. He asked if thought she looked real enough. If she could stay in place without moving. He eliminated all of the ones that could make any sounds. Then he eliminated the ones that couldn't bend their knees. 

"You can wriggle and scream all you want now," he said, scrolling through the blow-up women on his screen, "Well, don't scream, that would still bother me." 

He finally came to a doll with dark hair, and creepily realistic fingers, but she looked still, like a cheap sex doll. That was worse somehow. At least, if she looked beautiful, and realistic, I would see more value in being replaced by her. Is that shallow? That feels shallow, but also all of this seems patently absurd to discuss anyway. She's an object, it shouldn't even matter. 

But it did. 

It mattered. 

He told me he would get that one, but he wouldn't order her online, he would go and pick her up from the store. That shouldn't have bothered me, and I still don't understand why it did, but later it felt better because I presumed he probably wouldn't do it. 

But he did. 

He brought her home in a white box, and I don't know when he did it. He brought her in and asked me if I knew what was in the box, I didn't answer, because I knew the answer. I just wished I didn't know the answer. 

"You know what's cool about a fuckdoll?" He asked, using the term he often uses to describe me, "I can make new holes in her." 

"That's fucked up," I said, even though it made me shiver when he said that, "Can I see it?" 

"Her," he said seriously, "And no, you cannot see or touch her, I will leave her here and you will sit there, across the room, and wait for me." 

I love opening packages and I absolutely hate waiting. It's only natural he want me to have to suffer through watching an unopened package while waiting. Sometimes, sadism is just an excuse, I think some of them are cruel. That's what they really are, and they cannot say that so easily, it's a big, harsh word with a heavy meaning. Sadist is easier, somehow. He sat down in front of me and laced up his shoes. 

"This will be great if it works out," he said, swatting my hand away as I tried to loosen his shoelaces, "You won't have to suffer through the ordeal of being fucked and I don't have to deal with your nonsense." 

I specifically went and found a man who enjoyed a woman going through the ordeal of being fucked so I wouldn't be a pain to fuck for men who don't like that so much, and now the man I found bites me for showing my ordeal. It's like I cannot win. I definitely do not want to or else I would have by now. It's been a while. 

"It's not an ordeal," I tell him, and it's a bit of a lie, but it's easier than saying that it is an ordeal and I just like ordeals a lot. 

"It's kind of perfect," he said ignoring me, "I can beat you, because I need that to be felt, and I can fuck her, because I don't really care what anyone feels when I do that." 

"You do," I said but it was less honest than it was the kind of thing you say because you're hoping that saying it will make it true. 

"You know it's really surprising," he said still ignoring me. 

"What is?" I asked in an irrelevant and probably unheard murmur. 

Sometimes I just take the voice and tone of someone who lives with a pillow on their face. 

"I didn't think you could get any more useless," he said, finally looking at me, before getting up to leave, "And please if you're going to cry, wait until I leave to do it." 

I didn't cry. 

I knew I would eventually. 

I just didn't at that moment. I needed him to see those tears. He wanted to see them too. He just wanted to force me to hold them in until he told me I could cry, because he's a weird man, who has given me weird fetishes, and I didn't think it could get any weirder. He got up to leave and then he did. 

He just left me there. 

Immobilised and purposeless. 

Watching the cats sleep on top of a nice, white box. 

They used to sleep on me. 

 ......

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