Shibari TimeLapse Placenta

Genre: Erotica, Psychological horror

In an empty apartment, the water faucet drops. When it hits the sink I hear the slow rhythm, every drift down the holes. Where it needs to feed, where it needs to drink its fill. I listen to the music of the water, constrained and apart from myself. Disconnected from diurnal. A windowless future that clings to the bed of my pinnings like crusted lips. I'm hungry to be seen, a dryness that waits underneath, that brushes against business suites, the apps, the noise, the bustling that never ends. Faceless bodies of porcelain, their cracked vases are somewhere wrong. Venom splinters while they’re faced with regret. And still, they can’t see where they’ve gone astray. In secret they cut, and I’ll know where they’ve gone. No stranger to the care of their own neglect. Depraved, they break out in sweat, the salt bridge on my tongue.

In a glass box, I live where no one can touch me. They see me at the corner of their eyes when the light hits just right. I slip past them, a ghost with rage that cycles from the sea on the streets. Its allusive on the tongue, few imprint my mark. In hiding, I worship the women in my circles, and I taste all the they thems, we're not strangers to each of our own. Boundaries live on through the garments encasing our skin, until the moment feels right. I’m invested in the temporary of our songs. We speak in tongues about the gift, a freedom deserved as the deserted wept. In distance, we’re cities without borders, as we close in on our serenade. Unorthodox, we search through the linens and the threads that binds us. Our masks in naked light.

When the water drips, I hear his breath again, a timelapse between dusk and dawn. Future unfolds without affliction. Bird feathers fall. Rope tender on the flesh. A begging that is raw.

The weaver isn't arrogant in his touch. He weaves the rope with meticulous joy, a place where his deliverance is literature read through me at every hour. Its unyielding fruit presses against the crest of my lips, yearning with tingles shooting from each access points of my body. I give in as my toes rest in flight. Just slivers away from the floor. In total sensory depravation, I sway, the silk garments touch my crane feathers with ease as I slip into the dream fields. Ready to be sowed and harvested. A blanket of soil wrapping up my loins and my fingers. He moves with the weave, and becomes the water dripping. He no longer feels human, he tells me he's my protector. I tell him he's my release.

In a world of unrelentless control, we are thrusted into the world. Our placenta ripped from our bodies liberating us to the cruel coldness, the cement on the ground, our skin bare, not ready for the blindness of men. Drums of war linger, but I can’t falter. War strips layers of our skin like conquerors of flesh, taking parts of my innocence with each breath. I feel the hot air on my face, the rickety fan out of place, it moves in cycles with the past repeating the present. Dust pillowing out, sandstorms of wicked feeling. A black hole of bone and marrow. Men lie when they tell us we are loved with half way measures, a bare minimum wage. Enough is enough, we can never be more. We give so much in our undoing. You want to love their poison, a plastic pick me up. Their masks layered deep, they can’t find what’s real until it’s already too late.

The weaver is not like them. He pays attention to the craft, over my legs and my arms, my body contorts with joy of his presence. The fight in my body wishes to escape the trap and my mind relaxes to his truth. Unbearable, incomprehensible. Not fearing of death, just the destruction of my flesh. Sounds beat all around me. Every crevice unearthed. They're listening to my tangled heart. Lips spread where juices of fruit plays with the vacancy of my skin. It ignites the fire, I still feel you within. We've reached an understanding, the weaver and I. He leaves me to hang, the art of my body photographed in the shadows of dusk. He tells me that cranes are quiet, but this is where my body can scream.

As it moves faster my body burns, the brightest star in the sky. A lightness, a transparency can never capture. My weaver places a soft fruit in my mouth, not enough to crush between my teeth, something soft to hold as the sticky substance changes my colors, stimuli fading to the hum of our bodies. He tastes my treasures, an offering without submission or power. My head nestled in the hands of the creator. Gentleness, where the world tries to harden us. Gunpowder remnants shade our skin, slices down to our bones. I can feel his eyes watching me through my silk wrap. In blindness, shallow halos electrify my nerves. His mouth reaches the ends of my lips, where he show me how my world can spin out of me, traumas black teeth. He sucks it clean.

Fatigue steps out of my door frame, I feel his hands where they're supposed to harmonize. The weavers song is a duty of honor, he takes the things from me, I can't pull away from and he ravages it. Memories pass through my eyelids flutter. All the consumption, the loneliness, the shame replaced by the empowerment of his touch. Doors that live in the center of my body, open and close repeatedly with no separation. Our clear liquid binding. My weakness is his worship, his strength is the acknowledgement. Bound to our wills, freedom never need to be spoken, we dance between the rope and the air. I'll give in to him in this timeless twilight. Sensations careful contract. I see the reveal of all genders fleshing their way out from my body, horrific constraints beg for my completion. Pain unnaturally transforms from my mind. My creator licks my wounds, the flesh shines. We moan with every decibel. Fingers untainted he opens up my mouth. He touches what he's allowed to have.

In the end, my crane feathers are wet with exhaustion, the rejoice of his mercy. My dreams wish me dead, with half measures. I dig for him before I fall. In his home, I cradle inside his ribcage hearing the beating of his heart. His immortal hands bind me every Sunday, we call it Church. Our story is shared through the mildew, the wooden planks filled with dust, it's our explosive trust. I murmur his name, silk cut along my body, a partial exposure. Shameless renderings. Listening to his boots vibrate with the floor. The weaver glides past the door, after I’m cut loose and the faucet stops. Crumbling in my center stage, are the things I’ll always know. A gift from the cosmos, where we lay, where I lay. My thrill to see it, to feel real. We pray to the delirium, a stroke of love.

[Stream of Consciousness POV prompt given by C.J. Stockton this is about as romantic as you’ll probably ever get, but I did try. Shibari is about the technical release for SOME trauma victims, I did my best to explain it in the ways of my mind. A lot of people think kink can harm us, but in a world where we’re always needing to be some type of way, this is where you can release, let go. Find your freedom. Only with trusted folks. Be safe out there.]