...I want subway sammiches. Or something.
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...I would die for you...
It's just words, right? One of those pretty phrases people spout in moments of passion and emotion, things said to comfort, to manipulate, to give the appearance of committment.
I would die for you.
So what do you do when one day someone calls in that marker?
It's not like you weren't expecting it, even. You know her tastes. You know her desires. You know all the things that make her wet, the little secrets she doesn't talk about but loves to hear, the words that leave her breathless. You've used them, all of them, to keep her calm and close and - face facts - dependant. You like knowing that you are the source of her pleasure and it's been easy for so long now, to just spin out the words until she is near-purring with contentment and willing to forgive you anything.
And then this. The rope. The strangely-formed bondage gear. And in the corner of the room, under a velvet throw, something new. A clear plexiglass box, reinforced with steel, sealed and sealed again. There's a strange little sliding bit in the top, that can cover or uncover three small airholes. There's three strong clasps to fasten it once it's shut, clasps with locks dangling from them. She covered it with the velvet when you came in but really, it took only a brief look and you recognized it.
So now what? What do you say, now that she's standing there, silent, her hands holding the odd collarlike arrangement and the rope, her eyes dark as bruises staring at you, waiting... maybe you beg. Maybe you argue. Maybe, and this is the most likely, you open your mouth and she shakes her head, just once, speaking.
Hush. Sssh. It's time. You promised. You gave me this, and now I'm making it real. Hush, little one. Be a good boy. Don't cry. It's ok. Be brave, for me.
And she's buckling the leather around your throat, the collar rigid with strange bars extending from it to a square metal frame, you know once you're in the box that frame will fit it exactly. No way to bring your head against the glass. No way to try to placate her with gestures, with kisses and fogged breath and now she's binding your hands too, the rope knotted tight around your wrists. Painful. She hushes you again when you whimper.
It'll be over soon. Don't worry. It'll stop hurting soon. Hush, little one.
The box is uncovered, opened... she stares at you again and it's as if you're hypnotized, stepping into the glass, shivering as you crouch, then do your best to lay back. She has to shift the strange metal and leather collar slightly to get it to fit into the box. It clinks, when it comes to rest... your head is held up a few inches off the bottom of the box, but that's ok, your hands bound behind your back make it almost necessary to lift your head to stay comfortable. Your mouth opens again and you're going to try, to try to push those words out at her, into her, stopping this before it's too late...
...and the lid slams shut. You're talking but it's obvious she can't hear you... and now you're screaming and she's smiling but still you know the sound is only echoing in your own ears, if she hears it at all it's faint, meaningless, and she lays over you, draped over the box, her head above yours, her palms flat on the glass, staring down at you.
Lips move. Mouthing words. You wish you could hear her voice but you know what she's saying anyway.
You said you would die for me, pet. You gave me this. You wanted this. You knew it would happen.
I'll miss you.
The little breathing holes are covered, the box is locked, and your twisting and tossing just shakes it a little bit. She clings to it, still staring down at you, watching... watching as you use up more of what little air you have in another bout of screaming, watching as you look up at her, watching as you fall motionless. Staring at you staring at her. Waiting.
Your chest hurts.
Your vision blurs, just slightly, but not enough to keep you from seeing something trickling down her cheeks. A few drops splash on the glass and you flinch, wincing with each tear that falls, not understanding... your head hurts, so heavy, aching, and she's crying... why is she crying?
Your breath catches. Rasps. You try to draw another breath in but somehow it's not working. Of course she's crying. This is, after all
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