Prisoner of your Own Desire
by Mr. Scade
She pulled herself off from the floor with one hand; fingers clawed, tendons strained. From bony and lifeless, to intricate and detailed; funny what could turn a hand beautiful. Her biceps became apparent, her triceps a little more than a guilty reminder of the dumbbells she never used. Her arm hurt as she strained, strained, pushed and pulled and pulled more with all her might. With one hand, she moved her entire weight onto the bed, as the other one could not be parted from her sex. Like most of her body, she had lost it.
Her voice was gone, replaced, evicted. What echoed in the lonely room were not words, but sounds that could turn heads away in both fear and shame, and turn cold erogenous zones into areas of volcanic activity.
After much struggling she pulled herself over the bed, pants and grunts the only indication she had that she had managed to do something beyond masturbating herself into oblivion. Sometimes she didn’t even know if she was moving at all. Her busy hand moved with a will of its own, searching, touching, loving. It touched a spot she thought couldn’t take any more attention, punishment, hate, love, need. She shuddered all over, tensed, froze in place, then felt her mind shut off as a tsunami razed the shoreline. The bed sheets were soiled once more, the mattress the recipient of violence, and the walls covered their ears at the guttural sound that escaped her throat. Pain, heat, delight, pain again, muscles aching, so much pain, good, delicious, pleasure once more, heat, pain, higher, higher, higher! Her body relaxed as she climbed from her high and her hand finally stopped moving. Not for long, though, never for long.
How more of this could she take? And, did she want it to stop? Of course she wanted it to stop. She had to! She had a life, friends and family. But... but her life never felt this good, this real... surreal. It was good. Surreal?
Her hands were no longer busy and they were victims in their own way. Her whole body was a victim, relaxed as it was in a way she could barely move. No moving, just relaxing. Not that she had any energy left to move. Just enjoying and relaxing and not moving and just thinking was all she could do. Her breathing ceased to be hard and fast, her toes uncurled, her heart beat returned to normal, and her arousal subsided. She was content and she allowed herself to close her eyes and shut off her brain.
As she drifted she recalled: a cold apartment, a loveless life, an order, a package, a squeal of joy. And then oblivion. And then this. This wasn’t oblivion. No, this was the joy before the oblivion, and she knew oblivion too well.
She couldn’t keep her eyes open. The room didn’t exist anymore; no sounds, no light, no thoughts.
Oblivion came.
Dreamless sleep took her and then she woke. Her body ached in the most wonderful of ways, and her left arm had knives digging into it. She opened her eyes, blank and thoughtless they were, and sat upright. Oblivion had been familiar, lovely, delicious, cleaning up so much she didn’t know about herself and so much she didn’t know she could do without. She tried to remember but how could she remember something she didn’t need and had never had in the same place? The girl’s body moved, acted, but she was still asleep. Her left hand was parted from her sex, wet and needy as it was. It ached for something to fill it, love it, kiss it, caress it, lick it, obey it. Her hand ignored it for the first time in a very, very long while. She didn’t recall dreaming of sex, but for some reason she felt like she had had it. To be honest, she didn’t recall anything. She was asleep, oblivion had taken her deeply this time Her brain was shut off. Then, why was Alanis Morissette’s lyrics going off in all corners of her mind?
Her feet carried her towards a mirror that could’ve been in a bathroom, or a living room, or a castle on a lake. She didn’t know and didn’t want to know. Water falling sounded, water splashes sounded, and water kissed her face. She blinked hard, and she saw her own eyes, intelligent, sensible and full of questions.
“I must stop listening to that woman.” She told her reflection, washed her face more, and decided it was time to brush her teeth. “I haven’t listened to music in days. What is going on with me?” She slumped over the basin, the realisation heavy enough. She caught a whisk of her body odour. When had she last washed herself? Three days ago? A week? When had she stopped caring about the world? When I became a prisoner. She heard herself think. She shivered. Prisoner, prison, trapped, captured, controlled, no escape, no escape, always trapped, always in oblivion.
She shook her head, clearing it from nothing that could cloud her thoughts.
She brushed her teeth while having a shower. She needed one; sticky in places that should not be sticky, her skin salt-speckled, and her body odour not that of a lady. Or a human. Or an animal. God, how long had she been trapped? And how had she been trapped? And why?
When she was clean again she could think clearly. She ran her hands over the shackle that kept herself imprisoned. She could only blame herself for it. Why had she wanted it? Why did she decide to try it on? “Live long enough without someone, and you can be swayed by pretty words and advertisement.” She told herself. Advertisement, tricks, illusions to ensnare people like her into falling prey to their own obsessive devices. The girl sighed and stopped touching her shackles.
The girl walked back into the room and tried to open the door. Like every day her hand stopped short, frozen, stuck, trapped by a force that could be hers or something else’s. That scared her. Was she her own captor, or something she couldn’t see? She knew that if she fought against it, she would spend another day with an empty mind and a cramped hand. She was too weak already. No food and water for days could do that to a person. She couldn’t lose any more time to that need, desire, aching, beauty, joy that grew within her. She wanted to call it something else, but with every passing hour she knew that the need and its cause became more a part of her psyche than her own name. More like herself. More of herself. She was losing it, losing her body and mind and soul and becoming one with her shackles, if not the shackles themselves.
“Four days already.” She told no one as her eyes fell on the calendar. “Four days wearing this... thing.” Her fingernails bit at the garment encasing her torso and pulled, stretched, fought. Something rips and the sound makes her joyous, but she knows it is pointless, stupid, a waste of energy. She sighs as the garment stitches itself back together and tightens, tightens and strengthens itself. It was as if nothing had ever happened. She had discovered that she was trapped wearing it the difficult way—the wounds were not healed yet.
What was left to try? Throwing things out the window wouldn’t work, as the suit didn’t allow her to. Banging on the walls didn’t work. She lived alone. Her apartment was nearly soundproof. And she knew no one in the city. “Whoever designed this is a genius. Cater to those who cannot be saved; entice those who want sexual company but cannot escape. Alanis Morissette would hate me.” What? Who? She giggled and mused, her thoughts not that coherent, and sat on the bed. Her stomach rumbled. Seven days without food. She wanted to sleep. Just sleep and get it over with. She knew today was the last day. Today would be the last day... the thought made her feel, oddly, relaxed. As if a weight was lifted from her shoulders.
It felt good to give up.
She smiled, felt a sudden heat envelope her body. Her eyes grew wide.
“No... not now!” She screamed and felt the garment tightening, shivering as if electricity flowed through its black material. “Please, just give me some time to think! I want to think!” She sobbed. “I want to be me still.” The familiar scent of oblivion permeated the air. It was there, so close, so close and she knew it and hated it and knew that she would love it in a couple of minutes.
Her left arm moved on its own. Her entire body moved without her command. A fickle of fingers found the spot. Her body tensed, shivered, and a moan escaped her. A body was taken over, and her mind would follow suit.
The last thing she thought before the suit took over her mind was that she, actually, had gotten what she wanted. Advertisement, mesmerising, hypnotizing advertisement; it didn’t lie, no it didn’t. She got it, wanting to escape, escape, escape and enjoy and feel pleasure and need and oh so beautiful pleasure! And she got it, and it was her fault and she thanked herself.
The thought made her feel relaxed, and it wasn’t so bad as her personality was eaten away.
Oblivion came.
Time later the body of the girl woke.
She didn’t leave oblivion this time.