Love Pillow

I’m wondering, if it was offered to me, if I would be able to find it within myself to refuse…
I mean it would be the ultimate bondage, the ultimate submissiveness. Isn’t that what I’m all about? Deep inside me, isn’t that what makes me tick… what makes me wet?
The very things that I… that we all take for granted if we have them, our way of getting around, our way of doing things for ourselves… without them we are useless. Without them we would have to rely on others for everything, for even the most basic human needs or activities. We would have to be fed, washed, taken everywhere, we would even have to be sat up, laid down; we would be totally at the mercy and kindness of others…
Totally at the mercy of other’s kindness…
Totally at the mercy of other’s… cruelty…
It would be horrific, I cannot imagine much worse, short of death. But yet I crave it, even as I write about it my sex throbs and I touch myself. I squirm on my seat and my juices stain the cushion. My bondage is helplessness, I need the thin cruel ropes that hold me in agonising pain, I must be helpless, at the mercy of my mistress, or at the mercy of the cruel rapist. I must be helpless as they torture me, fuck me, indulge themselves in whatever debased needs they have. I must be an object, a toy, fuckmeat.
I would struggle, I would fight with all my strength, but they would be too strong. I would remain conscious as they strapped me to the table, sinews straining against the cable ties that would hold me in their vicious unbreakable grip.
Their faces would leer over me as they injected my upper arms and thighs with local anaesthetic and my struggles would subside as the muscles relaxed and I would be still on the hard shiny surface of the table. You may think it an act of kindness, that they take away the pain of the physical trauma, but no… the physical pain is nothing compared with watching your arms and legs amputated and placed in the marinade.
First is the collar, steel, welded, immovable.
I am gagged because they grow tired of my pleas and move a large mirror into position, that I can watch the whole process. Soon the table runs with my fluids, its drainage hole mixing and spinning all the various colours and textures together and I am taken by merciful unconsciousness.
When I come round I am laid on a soft pillow on a soft bed and my hair is beautifully styled and fragrant. I am wearing a powder blue baby doll, sheer, with lace and satin ribbons. My face is professionally made-up and I glance appreciatively at my reflection in the ceiling mirror, I waggle my stumps.
Then I really come round… The derelict factory, the shuffling hoards of homeless guys, the smell of urine and cheap sherry and then…