You know your mind. So that even when the score demands syncopation and swing- notes played off the beat- you still anticipate the next ‘takt’, and prepare yourself, subconsciously (but completely) for the next note that you know will come, whether you are playing, or not. Show them. ‘I tell you what. The rope grips your wrists. How hard?’
‘As hard as you think I can…’
You tail off. They can’t fuck with me. You speak again. How this noise and chaos gets dealt with. Not to test it, but to feel the pressure increase around the soles of your feet, and ankles, to which your wrists are bound. Why don’t we count together? I go back to caressing you. If only they knew half the truth. The noise in your head increases. And I raise my hand high. You pull against it. ‘How many times should I spank you? ‘Good. Predictable; fixed; rigid; relentless. Because, your pulse is racing and slowing: not based on your own free-will, but upon mine.That little prick. Measured application of the law. You can bury your flushed, blushing face into your bed; the erectile tissue causing your hairs to stand on end is quite independent of your will. What do you think?’
More silence, but lip-bitten nodding this time. ‘How many times should I spank you?
