Safe word. I forgot the fucking safe-word!
The pain shoots through me like a hamster strapped to a firework, lit and sent up my arsehole Richard Gere-style with bells on. She drops the tool and paces around my bent-double form.
I am a disgrace and she tells me so.
Melodymaker... Margarine...Maplesyrup...Marvel comic-book...Mahatma Gandhi’s flipflop...?!!
She kicks me again between my legs and I lose my breath. My stomach folds then churns and my ballbags hide inside me somewhere. I cry and she laughs. I gag and her reflex is to strike me hard on my back with a cane, which she drops like the other thing that I can’t see that made more of a dull thud. In my head a twisted me is laughing with her at the absurdity of it and the pain...
Mitsubishi...Marigolds...Murder She Wrote...Moulin Rouge...MonkeyMagic...wake up Maggie I think I’ve got something to say to you...
I can’t see. I can barely move because of what I’m wearing. What in Christ do I look like? I paid for this like a fucking idiot. I could’ve gone for a meal!
She puts her heel on my shoulder and digs it in. Fuuuuck! You bitch! She twists it like she’s putting out a cigarette on me and then I think it gives her the same idea I had and she walks away and I hear the sound of her striking a match three times and I can smell cigarette smoke. Evil mind-reading bitchwhore.
Mummification...Mumford and Sons...Milford Haven...Melton Mowbray...Maydaymayday we’re going down...
She burns the cheek of my arse with my idea; once, twice, three times a lady. I grunt and I groan and I bite down on the gag in my mouth and still the word won’t come to me; the word to end my suffering... the safe-word we’d agreed upon when she greeted me at the door in her Primark fleece dressing gown. It was there, on the tip of my tongue. I had it. I dared myself to erase from my mind and it was gone in an instant and now I can’t get it back.
Manfred Man, Marilyn Manson, Moira Stewart, Man on the moon, Marty Mcfly, Mental, mental chicken oriental...
What the fuck was that?
She drags something across the end of my manhood which feels like sandpaper, but it’s worse, it’s cold and metal. She’s got the cheese grater out OH MY GOD! Don’t! You stop that!!
She tells me I want it and I’m a naughty boy and I deserve it. She slaps me around the ear and it sends a bass note to my ear drum with a rush of blood.
NO! I’m bleeding down there but she’s doing it now... back and forth with a rhythm like she’s playing guitar on me. Please let me black out...
Mad world, Magpie, Outer Mongolia...Mississippi mud pie...MACADAMIA!!! I said it! I said it! It’s muffled through the gag, but it’s clear. I said it. I beat the floor with fist and I say it again. “MACADAMIA!” my dribble leaks from the sides of my mouth onto the floor boards.
Nothing. No response. She carries on, scraping it back and forth like she’s filing and polishing her fingernails. She must have heard it!
“Macadamia! Macadamia! Maca-cunting-damia!”
A snigger. She stops. She picks up the next tool.
“Silly man.”
