The room was cold and dark. The air conditioning unit provided a loud hum for background noise. It made for my own type of sensory deprivation. My hands were always cuffed and occasionally, as I rolled over or squirmed, I hit myself in the head with the lock that latched them together. I would mentally curse. He didn’t wish for me to squirm against that which bound me, but my guess is, if I did, he wanted to make sure that I didn’t go anywhere.
When I rolled over or moved he would reach for my collared neck, my hair, or hip and roughly tug me back to him so that I never strayed far in the large bed. I was always tucked under him, curled around him, or hips positioned so that he could lay over me. Whatever he liked. I needed him to pull me back and put me where he wanted me because it’s never comfortable to sleep alone for too long.
At times when I’d get hot and the sheets felt too restricting, I’d kick at them. A swift, strong hand would still me. My body’s natural desire was for his touch and the need for it to overpower me. I wanted him to take me so badly.
His hand wrapped over my lips and my nose to cut off the air from my body. I struggled, then become still and tight against him. I surrendered. When I was close enough to him that his excitement could be felt, he would give me my air.
I do not remember sleeping. I remember drifting off, feeling completely safe, comfortable, and happy with my back arched and my throat exposed. I wanted him touching me. All the most sensitive parts of me, at his whim. Constantly and throughout the night. The more often his hands covered me, the more I yielded to him, and the less I fought.
I was always going to be his.
He wasn’t giving me a choice.