Kneel, Spread

He tells you to stay where you are, exactly where you are, and after that you don’t hear anything for a very long time. You are kneeling on the floor, your legs spread, your arms behind your back, hands clasping wrists. You are blindfolded. Apart from the blindfold your body is entirely naked.

The position is precise. Before he told you to stay he adjusted your body minutely, firmly. He lifted you so that you couldn’t rest your arse on your heels. So that your body was tilted forwards a little, just on the edge of overbalancing. A terrible, awkward, in-between position to hold.

It might have been a minute since he last spoke. Or two minutes. Ten. It’s hard to tell with nothing to measure the passing of time against except the slowly worsening burn in your muscles. You don’t even know if he’s still there, still watching. Perhaps he’s left you alone and naked and blind in the middle of your own apartment. Perhaps this is all a humiliating joke.

If you gave in, you’d know. If you unclasped your hands, removed your blindfold, settled back (blessed relief) onto your haunches. You’d know very quickly if he was still there, still watching. But you don’t. He has told you to stay where you are, to hold the position you are in. And you are good. Obedient. That is what you’re going to do.

And so you kneel there, teetering, and notice things. There is nothing else to do but pay attention to the aches and strains of your own body. Your knees press down into the carpet beneath you. It felt soft and thick when you first knelt down and now it feels unforgivingly hard. It burns. Your thighs burn too, the ache in the muscles there rising and falling like a siren. You can feel yourself starting to shake. Tiny tremors. Tension held too long.

Your stomach is tense as well. Remaining, as you are, bent slightly forwards is not a natural thing to do. You feel the tension flutter in your abs every time you breathe. But it isn’t just one kind of tension. It is a dozen different muscles, the complaints of which rise to prominence one after another in turn. Now the worst pain is in the centre of your stomach. Now it is above your hips. Now it has burrowed all the way to your spine.

And in between these sensations – below your stomach and above your knees and between your thighs – there is the obscene wetness of your cunt. It is spread open between your legs. You feel like you could drip. You are kneeling on the floor like some ornament, despite the pain it causes you. You are doing this for him, because he told you to do it. No other reason.

Your legs twinge. Tremor. The instinct is to put your hand out and balance yourself, brace against the floor, take the tension from your thighs. But you won’t. Each breathless second that you continue to kneel is a triumph. But the seconds keep coming, an onslaught of them, each more difficult than the last.

You count those seconds. Count your breath. Try to distract yourself however you can. You hold out until your whole body is trembling. And when you finally do collapse it is not by choice. The muscles in your thighs are gone: empty space, water.

Except you don’t collapse. Not entirely. Because he’s there. Hands under your armpits. He catches you, holds you. Lets your exhausted muscles give as he lowers you gently to the floor. The relief that surges through you is like water. Your body feels light. You float an inch off the floor.

He holds you. And, after a minute, when you have strength in your arms again, you hold him too.

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