Poking

She poked, I moved. She poked again and I tried to get away. Given that I had no room in which to move everything was in her favor. As she wanted it.

I never had the extra cash for a proper metal cage. Out of four by fours I’d built the wood equivalent.

It was about as tall as her knee. When I crawled in I couldn’t do more than kneel.

My wrists were fastened behind me.

On her next to worst nights I’d slept in it, managing to work my way to my side.

On her worst nights I didn’t get to sleep in it because I didn’t stay there. My time in my wooden prison was just warm-up.

Tonight was the worst among worst. Blindfolded I couldn’t see it but I knew that in her hands was what I called her “cruelty cane.”

She’d warmed up with an ordinary walking stick. Poke, poke, poke: I’d retreat but it would follow. She was wearing me down.

Then she switched to the stick with a tiny bit of tack sticking out the end. With the regular sticks I’d suffer in silence.

With her cruelty cane I’d yelp and ouch. She called it singing for her.

I called it a warm-up. Maybe a softening-up gets the spirit right.

It wasn’t as if she couldn’t do whatever she wanted. But if she poked at me long enough I’d feel so helpless and impotent that I’d beg for anything. Even if they pain were greater.

The poking made my will crumble. An hour of it and I’d have agreed to walk across hot coals. Or eaten anything she commanded me to.

There were evenings she wanted nothing more than to see me reduced to begging and pleading for acts I’d ordinarily flinch from.

By now I was sure she knew my will had been completely trashed. But my total surrender some nights was too sweet to her to resist driving me more deeply into.

I had no idea what would follow. Perhaps she’d let me out and kick me from one side of the room to the other. I’d only thank her for releasing me from my present bondage.