(Backstory: I am standing on a deathtrap: a truck-tire innertube on which a plywood platform rests. I am on the platform, my ankles bound, my hands tied behind my back, the rope from my hands leading up over a ceiling joist and back down again to the other end of the rope – which is a noose, pulled snug around my genitals. The plug is pulled on the inner tube; as it deflates, I will sink toward the floor. There is insufficient slack in the rope for my feet to touch the floor – if I do not escape, I will be left hanging from the two nooses, my arms pulled up behind my back, my favorite organs crushed in the tightened noose.)
There is a slight lurch, a gentle settling sensation, and the slightest of tugs against my groin.
Already? Already it begins? A sudden sick feeling; gorge rising in my throat: what have I done? The thin whistling hiss, innocuous, the death of a plaything, the end of summer, and I’ve turned it into the death of something else, the beginning of pain.
A faint thrumming sound – the knot slips upward, resting more snuggly against my scrotum. Still I haven’t started struggling, even though I know this contraption, this simple device, will work; if I do nothing, I will hang and the pain will be what it will be, and it will be forever. I may hang here until I am found, alive and ruined – or dead of thirst from days left dangling.
Alone. As alone as if my captors were not in the room, watching me slip inexorably toward my own destruction. Inexorably, and still without struggle. The woman looks at me quizzically. She glances at her wrist, wondering no doubt when I will release her from the agony of waiting. But we are both prisoners of time, of the same slow process, the law of physics our ransom as my body weight of 150-plus pounds forces air through a too-thin tube.
Pressure, now on the sides of my organs, and across the top of my member. A reminder – fantasy aside, this rope is real, and gravity is real, and my presence on this piece of wood is what brings the two into conflict.
I test my bonds. Gingerly, I lift my feet – heel up, left; heel up, right. The bungee chords are tight enough – I can’t readily slip free. Perhaps if I weren’t standing I could slip free – if I were sitting, which is denied me, or dangling, which is a certainty.
A certainty. As certain as any thing ever was. The thin screaming hiss of air escaping the tube tells me so; the constant gentle (and, yes, pleasurable) pressure across my member tells me so. As certain as is the pain which will surely follow the pleasure; follow, supersede and obliterate it. Pain as constant, dull and brutal as the pleasure which preceded it was fleeting and insubstantial. My organ stirs at the thought of pain, and I am surprised. But the pressure around me is still gentle, sensuous, and I realize that I am staring at Kris as I focus on the sensation, staring at the softness between her rounded thighs – fixing the intimate regard shared by sex, pain and, maybe, death forever in my libido. For as long as I may continue to have a libido.
I do not struggle. My engorged organ presses outward against the rope – almost alive now, as it slips around me – and is alive to sensation. I need to struggle, I know this, I need to escape, for the laws of physics are as sure as the laws of the jungle. As sure as gravity; as sure as the noose. As sure as the curve of a young woman's thigh. As sure as these things, the still-gentle caress of the rope and the allure of my lovely, ruthless young captors carries me unprotesting past the Point of No Escape.
(An aside - The Point of No Escape: my theory about predation. The successful predator brings her prey to the point of no escape as quickly, and with as little effort, as possible. The lion uses surprise and speed to bring the wildebeest into the compass of her jaws before the prey realizes she is being hunted; the spider’s web immobilizes the prey before it can apprehend its danger. Animals use speed and subterfuge to bring their prey past the point at which struggle is futile before the victim realizes that struggle is needful.
Standing on the platform, reveling in the sensation of the rope noose around my organs, not struggling – not yet, I want to feel this after all – I know in my mind that I am in danger. I am prey, the predator is Pain. In my deathtrap design, subconsciously I knew that, once caught in the circle of the noose, I the victim would luxuriate in the thrill of faux danger, the sensation of movement against my organs, the gentle pressure of the noose closing around me. Luxuriate perhaps even as I passed physically through that last moment at which I might successfully escape the trap.
But the Point of No Escape – the point beyond which, despite my fervent struggles, I will continue to sink into the tube and the noose will continue to tighten – this point of such desperate importance to both predator and prey, is disguised by the pleasure I am feeling. The point beyond which I cannot save myself is passed during the period in which sensations are pleasure: the promise of danger, the threat of pain. I don’t realize, as I fall slowly through that point in time, that the promise is now reality, the threat a certainty. Pain is a seductress, her gentle beguiling touch drawing me in while I am unwilling to resist her, then further still until I am, unknowing, unable to resist her. Then the gentle touch turns masterly, pre-emptive, abrupt. Brutal and dismissive, now that she holds me powerless, she cares not a whit for my desires, and certainly not for my pleasure. I brought you what pleasure I would, she says. I did what I had to do, in order to get you; now that I have you, I will do what I will.)
This, I think, is the perfect deathtrap. Erotic, stimulating right up to the moment in which it becomes suddenly horrifying. And by that point, inescapable. The time to escape is before it seduces you with sensation. (The time to escape your young twin captors is before they seduced you with their youth, their firm curves and supple limbs.)
So, struggle, I think. Escape your bonds, leap down and engage these soft, lovely things.
Looking at the two bright-eyed sweet-limbed killers before me, imagining my righteous vengeance wreaked upon their slim bodies, I grow more aroused.
I’m surprised by a moment of pain.
With a start of sudden panic, I realize I’ve spent too long ruminating. The girls smile sweetly at me; The Woman brushes her hands together – that’s that. I realize what they have known for some time:
To be continued . . . ?