“I suffer for you.”
You chanted it like a mantra, while the rope attached to your hair and the suspension winch made you stand on your tip toes.
The mantra was what kept you afloat as your legs gave out, as your hair gave out. You were crying. It was not from the pain (I am sure there was pain), it was not from the isolation (you were alone in the darkness for a very long time), it was not the physical sacrifice that you were experiencing. It was the suffering that made you cry and stretch your hand out towards me, even though it was a burning torment to extend your body so far past it’s limit.
There is nothing more honest than suffering. To be slowly lowered into pain, to move beyond discomfort and the nebulous region where masochists find their pleasure. It is as if these ideas of pain, discomfort, torture, are nothing but the thin ice above a lake of sacrifice. I want to lower you into it, because it is in this cold water that your skin turns blue and you become my Ophelia.
As my slave, you float in this icy hell for me in many ways. Most are not obvious to the outside observer; many of them are quiet personal hells that only you and I share, while some are hells and traps that only you know. These little sufferings, like a thousand razor cuts, leave you raw and wounded and so few people ever get to see. Taking your body and allowing it to bleed, actually bleed, means that you are given a chance to show the world how dedicated you are to me. I want your suffering. I want you to crawl across broken glass to show the world what you and I already know, that you are mine.