‘You’ve had a lung drained,’ I say, pointing to it.
He covers the scar with his hand. ‘I have, yes …’
‘Roughly five years ago.’ I can tell from the colour.
He nods.
‘Painful?’ I ask.
‘What do you think?’ he replies.
He steps back from the bed. ‘Turn around. All fours. Spread your knees.’
‘Yes, Master,’ I say, and he grimaces.
‘Master is kind of passé now.’
My face flushes. I’ve never felt like I’ve read more things wrong than in this subculture.
‘Forehead to the mattress,’ he says.
I lower my head, finding that I have to rest my weight on my chest and neck to keep upright.
‘Cross your arms behind your back.’
I do as he says, while my body tells me the first quiet no of the evening. I should listen. Now would be the perfect time to listen to my body.
Jay kneels behind me, pulling my arms further back until my shoulders are no longer touching the mattress and all my weight now rests between my knees and on my head and neck. I feel him lightly swipe his palm over my bruises as if letting me know that he sees them. He binds my hands together tightly in a reverse prayer position.
‘Right ear down.’
I turn my head and look at the bare white wall. I am supporting myself on the side of my throat, breathing shallowly. Both my mind and my body are finding many aspects of this exchange uncomfortable.
‘Open your mouth.’
I open my mouth a small amount, but he squeezes either side of my jaw until it opens wider. With his other hand, he pulls my underwear from his pocket and shoves them to the back of my tongue. I try to push them out, but he clamps my jaw shut. A roll of gaffer tape sits near the bed and he grabs it, tearing a piece off and smoothing it over my mouth. He slaps my cheek twice. ‘Good girl.’
I used to think my body was special because it could withstand a lot. I walked my body into parties it didn’t want to be at. Made fun of it. Filled it with smoke and alcohol until it bumped into walls. Let it be laughed at. Made it get haircuts it didn’t like. Made it be polite, sit up and behave. I jumped it off rocks and pushed it into rivers, and happily let it hit the water too hard. I left my body out of decisions. Ignored it when it didn’t feel right. Hated it when it didn’t work. It could have been on Mars for all I cared. It could have been dead.
What else? I let myself remember.
What about when I’ve loved it? Fed it vegetables, and kept it warm and safe. When I put soft things around it. Let it sleep more than the usual amount. When I checked if it needed glasses, or vitamins. When I used my body to care for other bodies. When I untangled knots with gentle hands, and ignored my phone. When I took my body for long walks, ran it like a dog, sank it into warm baths with salts. And when I listened to it give the first gentle no of the evening.
Jay moves until he is behind me on the bed. He lifts up my thighs and back so that there’s even more pressure on my neck. I try to swallow, but the fabric has absorbed everything in my mouth. The underwear is clogging my throat and I can’t breathe properly.
‘Arch your back.’
I squeeze my eyes shut, trying not to cry.
‘Arch your back,’ he says again, smacking the skin on my waist.
I grunt. I want to go home.
‘One more time, Amelia: arch your fucking back.’
I try, but my body is too busy bearing the weight of this position.
‘Has anyone told you what BDSM stands for?’
‘No,’ I yell through the fabric. I want him to untie me. My body said no, and I want to listen.
He walks away from the bed and I hear a drawer open and the sound of something being dragged out.
‘You should have done your research,’ he says, coming back towards me.
He places something that feels like a heavy sandbag across my back. I want to shake it off but my shoulders feel like they might come loose in their sockets and my back spasms with the effort. I pull my hands apart but it only tightens the bind. I am compacted and crushed. My mother at the bottom of the stairs. Crumpled into a ball. Twisted and folded. I need to cut the top off my head to get these images out. I dry-retch, and let out a muted scream.
‘Shhh,’ Jay says.
I scream again until I feel my eyeballs strain. I am my mother in the stairwell. My mother in the crematorium. My mother turning to dust. I shriek so loudly that my head shakes.
‘Calm down,’ Jay says.
He pulls the tape off, and I gag on the underwear as he pulls it out.
‘Take a breath,’ he says, stroking my cheek.
‘Take it off!’ I yell, still resting on the side of my neck. ‘Undo me.’
‘In a minute,’ he says.
‘Undo me!’ I cry, as he unties my hands.
He lifts the weight off, and I fall to the side, folding my arms across my chest.
‘Breathe slowly,’ he says, demonstrating one controlled breath in, one out.
I launch off the bed and pull on my dress, then pick up my shoes and, without looking back, run out the door. Fabric fibres from my underwear coat my mouth, and my neck and shoulders ache. I rush through reception and out to the car. I slide into the driver’s seat, and accelerate down the street.
Insects are zipping through the air, and even though I am leaning forward and squinting, it’s minutes until I realise I need headlights, and it takes me two goes to turn them on, my hands are shaking so hard from the adrenaline. I smell like boiling vinegar. Like petrol and aniseed. It comes out in sheets
