I like mummification. Actually, scratch that, I love it: from the process of being wrapped up, to the time spent encased right through to being peeled out of damp, sticky plastic. There's a definite rhythm to the whole activity, a pace of sense and sensation until, finally, I can emerge from the cocoon having undergone something. I always float very easily when mummified, it gives me total freedom to do nothing, to experience that which I am allowed to experience, and to feel what comes over my mind and body as a result of those inputs.
The Photographer binds my eyes first, with thin strips of black tape. That's all it takes to shut off most of my brain. I'm in a strange place, caught between tired, horny and a come-down from the night before, so I'm easily lulled into delicate, dark spaces. He touches me, as he binds my body with pallet wrap, leaving just a few inches between my navel and the tops of my thighs free. Exposed, but also constrained, I can't spread my legs. He's bound lengths of taut rope between my legs, pressed tight against my labia and clit, then up around my torso. Rope underneath the plastic. I'm doubly held fast.
I enjoy the feel of his fingers on my back, touching me lightly. I can feel his face against my shoulders, lips next to my spine and I want him to kiss me, like a lover might, with soft strokes that speak of tenderness and intimacy. But he won't. He never does. Kisses are for equals. I am not his equal, not now. And whilst most of the time I am content to be his thing, his object, sometimes I yearn for more: the brush of his lips gives me the remembrance of his kiss, and the assurance that might bring, what it means. The absence of the kiss, the need for it is very clear, right then. There is a disjunct, between the softness of his touch, the impression it gives of care, of love, of consideration and the knowledge that he will not kiss me: that the feelings I have for him are not the feelings he has for me.
And then it all fades away, into the deep, blackness behind my eyes as a wave of torpor washes over me. I can't move, breathing lightly and not thinking about anything. I'm gone. He lies me next to him, resting a little on his shoulder as he reads. Occasionally his hand will stray across some part of me: face, limb, breast, torso. I moan beneath the plastic, an animal reaction, desire's reflex. I feel as if I am fading in and out of sleep, or at least in that curious not-sleep place where you are neither awake nor dreaming. I can't piece together. The touches keep stirring me from actually sleeping, but the same time push me further under, like see-saw, each one moves me hither and thither so it is actually very hard to focus on anything. I don't really know where I am, what time it is or what is happening.
It's a warm night, and I'm a little dehydrated to start of with, so after a few hours of not-really-sleeping I need to come out. I can feel anxiety rise in my stomach. I can't really breathe, my chest is tight and I can feel all of my muscles start to tense. I try and stay extremely still and force myself to be calm whilst he slowly (horribly, horribly slowly) starts to unpick the plastic. As he reaches the bands around my neck I am starting to actually panic, and it is all I can do to not lash out at him, to scream at him to hurry up and let me breathe. But I don't. I master myself. It is not his fault that I am starting to panic, he doesn't deserve this kind of response.
Eventually, the rope, the mashed-up balls of plastic and little bits of tape are in puddles about my feet and I can breathe. I don't feel quite right. I feel disconnected from myself, and a little nauseous. Extremely tired, I lie down in bed next to him with heavy limbs, unusually, do not start my (now) customary light-fingered movements hoping that he might want use of me. I'm happy, but entirely un-aroused, just a little sore where the rope pressed against me. I just sleep.