Sometime later I feel you putting some sort of cover over my legs. I’m distracted from breathing. I consider if this covering is a type of body bag or sleep sack. I’m frightened. I don’t have enough knowledge to confirm or deny. The comforting feel of you ministering to me is at war with my terror that whatever you are doing might close over my head in a few moments. I feel how much fabric is there. The bulk of it scares me. There is too much for my frame. What are you doing?
You have me stand and you pull the fabric up over my hips and to my waist. I hear you giggle. It is not your sadistic giggle. It is your silly giggle. In that moment I know I’m ok. I push aside the fear and work on keeping the panic at a reasonable level. I stand there tacitly, no longer concerned with what it is that you are doing. I feel you manipulating my body. You enclose the fabric around my ankles with straps leaving my feet bare. It occurs to me that you’ve put me into a pair of pants. The question of whose they are flashes on and off just once. I breathe. You are a comfort not a fear.
At some point, you move me to the table. I’m so happy to be supine. I no longer need to concern myself with keeping my torso upright. I can let go now. I can disappear. And I do. Almost immediately. It is dark. It is almost silent except for the sound of my breathing and the small noises you make moving about.
I feel you strapping me down. I smile. I am elated. I want to talk to you, to tell you how happy you make me, to tell you how well you know me, to thank you for knowing exactly what I need. I want to dance because I am ridiculously happy. Knowing the sound of my voice inside the hood will be painful and it will incite panic, I settle for doing these things in my mind. I feel another strap, this one across my hips, you make it so very tight. I’m thrilled. I wait for the one across my chest. I wait with giddy anticipation. I want it. I realize it’s not coming. I’m certain this is not arbitrary. You are never arbitrary. I think for a moment or two. I realize you do not want to restrict my ability to breathe anymore than it already is. I mentally stomp my foot. I want to argue with you that I can take it, that I have my big girl panties on. I argue with myself instead. I make the statement for the umpteenth time that you are far more experienced than I am, that you know exactly what to do. I roll my eyes and agree, mentally pouting at this unwelcome bit of wisdom stating, again, that I’ve got this.
I do not know how long I have been laying here. Panic comes around once in a while. I yoga/vocal breathe, sometimes more than once, and it passes. I am mellow. I am still. You are with me. I am safe. I am loved. I feel you at my feet but it is too much trouble to figure out what you are up to. I hear you muttering. I let it go. I am cherished. Nothing else matters.
Time is fluid. I become complacent. I make a mistake. I move my arms. I realize they are restricted. I have somehow forgotten this fact. Instantly, this is not ok. I breathe. It helps but not much. I try again. No improvement. I remind myself that I love this straightjacket. That it belongs to my Master. That I am privileged to be using it. That I adore being bound. My body exercises a will of its own, struggling. I try to breathe but cannot remember the proper counts. It occurs to me that I’m not going to win this one.
Before I can decide to safeword you are there asking me if I need to get out. I decide that I do and you free my head. Before I can feel as if I have failed, you hold me and tell me I was in that hood for four minutes shy of an hour. You tell me how proud you are.
I am lit from within.