The feeling of hands. I don’t know who they belong to, my blindfold stealing my vision and my ability to know. Hands, on my neck, on my chest, on my… They explore and tease the soft pleasurable places while the set on my neck squeezes until my thoughts turn white. My arms and legs tug at their restraints, trying to break free from the onslaught of confusing feelings. I hear her walk into my room, my torture chamber. The hands on my neck loosen.

She lets me breathe.

Panting and gasping for the air that has been deprived of me. She releases me, not from my bonds, but from my torment. I do not know what she looks like, I haven’t been allowed to see her, but I’ve been here long enough now to know the patterns. I know the feeling of her soft, warm hands that contrast the cold, harsh ones that she releases me from. I know that she is beautiful.

I love that she lets me breathe.

The clink of glass syringes and tapping of needles graces my ears. How long have I been here? It feels like days, weeks. My memories are foggy, I don’t remember how I got here. I don’t remember anything but the hands, the drugs and her. She keeps me sane.

I crave her touch.

Her hand softly touches my cheek, her thumb gently tracing my lips. Warm, soft, good. I let out a soft coo of pleasure, pressing into her touch. The cold hands hurt and torture me. She looks after me, she is safety and warmth. I want her touch. I want her hands.

She is a miracle.

She slips her thumb past my parted lips and I moan. She feels good, her touch is brief bliss whenever I receive it. I have a faint memory of fighting her, screaming when she touched me. That feels so very far away. Fighting her feels wrong now. She makes me feel good. The drugs come next. The pattern is always the same. A needle pricks into my arm, the familiar rush of heat flowing in from that slight pain.

She is my pleasure.

I don’t hear her with my ears. She’s in my mind. Quiet but insistent words. Praise and promise of pleasure. Whispers that inspire thoughts of adoration and devotion. I moan around her thumb again, the drugs filling me with heat and need. I feel her pull away, like she always does. I hear her leaving, the cold hands returning. They feel so much better with the drugs. They feel like her hands. Warm and soft. The drugs will wear off, though, and it will become torment again. I don’t want her hands to leave. Her hands are all I need.

Please stay.