Swallow
She hangs by her ankles in a dark room. A faint light illuminates her body, naked, ethereal. Her sounds, high-pitched cries and squeals muffled by the gag, echo in the darkness. The rope that pinions her arms behind her also draws back her shoulders, pushing her breasts outward. Dim shapes of the surrounding chamber compose the frame, her shape centered, as though hanging meat can be a thing made divine. Two headlights come into view, throwing harsh light into the garage. A truck enters. 411's cries multiply. From fear? Expectation? He drags YX into the arena of his desire. Duct tape is plastered over the lower part of her face, smothering her mouth. A single cable tie cuts across, separating her duct-taped lips, keeping the tape tight to her face. Her wrists and ankles are held with cable ties. He leaves her lying on the floor below where 411 hangs. YX struggles, helpless, looking upward at what could well be her future, naked and hanging for who knows how long in a dark and empty garage. Then it is day. YX and 411 are sitting, smashed against each other, forced into "togetherness." Both are locked, wrist and neck, to a metal bar. Each has a cable tie across the mouth as a gag, though they can still talk. "He ties me up an watches me, then leaves me alone." "Don't resist him, it only makes it worse." "Rest now while you can." This is the advice that the veteran gives to the new girl. "He washes your hair. He puts you in this sink and sprays you and scrubs you and hangs you up to dry." The new girl frets. She is restless. The veteran slumps, her body worn and saturated from all the time she can no longer remember, the things he's done to her, the ropes, the locks, the one after another days and nights left bound, left hanging. Her breasts, her nipples, her labia and clit overflow with the memory of his hands, his ropes. His wants, not hers. "What do you do when you're scared?" Her voice is monotone. "I don't get scared anymore." Then 411 is suspended again. She hangs upright this time, her arms bound back Japanese style. She is suspended from the upper harness. Her ankles are tied to each side as though she's been pried apart, forced open. Her tongue has been pulled out of her mouth, pinched between two pieces of wood. Her cries punctuate the scene again, more panicked now because of the stress, the pain of gravity dragging her downward, the ropes that cut her flesh, that won't let gravity win. Her body is a feast for his eyes, stretched out, held taut in place, ready. YX is dragged forward, her arms bound behind at wrists, elbows, and upper arms. The ropes delineate her breasts. "Reach for her sex," he says. But she can't. 411's cunt is just out of reach of YX's mouth. He threatens to hang YX up too. She struggles and jumps until he lowers 411, the change in height pulling her ankles farther apart. Her squeals grow more frantic. YX sucks 411's rosy cunt. Their cries form a rhythm, an agitated sensual terror. But 411's face shows relief, the remembrance of forgotten happiness. He makes YX stand beneath 411 and hold her on her shoulders. He reminds YX that she is 411's friend. She is there to help her. And YX holds her up, giving 411 relief from the pain of the suspension. But in time, YX weakens. Her legs begin to tremble. The balance of their alternating cries falls in favor of YX, as she struggles with the weight on her shoulders, and 411's hot wet cunt pressed against the back of her neck. It is yet another day. 411 is towed up the mountain by the breasts. Her wrists are bound high on her back, against her waist, so that her elbows jut up and back, like unfledged wings. Her breasts are tightly roped, bulging, stretched as she's dragged forward, sometimes at a run. She is barefoot. Her mouth is gagged with wood again. Her cries are more emphatic, pleading, because of the rocks cutting her feet, and the pace. Her breath rasps in her throat. From the other side of the pond, all we hear at first is the sound of the swallows. Then a motor. Then her cries, far off, echoing in the woodland. She hangs on a cross in the sun, her arms tied outward. The singing of the swallows overlays the scene at first. Then her cries. Her ankles are tied to the leg of the cross just above a short arm that juts out. A reprieve for her. Because she can rest her feet there. Almost. Not quite. It is perhaps the most insidious of her torments. She weakens and sags. Time passes. Her hands clutch at the arms of her cross. As evening comes, a wind quickens, blowing up slope from the valley below. As the sun bleeds the sky red, she cries and rises up, stretching, her arms like wings, her body curved like the curve of the swallow in flight. And her cries pick away at the coming of the night.