I don't know, either. My father also told me that there is nothing after death. John continued with his thought Eventually we moved into bondage and sex, the one complimenting the other. But I don't want to die, because death would be even worse.
There is nothing to listen to, except for his grunting and heavy breathing. I have difficulty recalling how often I am raped and how many times it has happened. Sold My husband John sold me to be a sex slave for twenty thousand dollars. I always thought we had a perfect relationship. I am still just a body, because I choose not to move; if I resisted him, he would beat me until I stopped, and so I do not move. I can think and draw breath, but I cannot act or speak any more than the bed I lay upon. I hate my life. Additionally, my legs were spread apart as my feet were tied to the eyebolts on each side of the closet, leaving me spread and totally available to exploring fingers when the door was open, or accepting the mechanical fucking machine that John had bought and used on me regularly. He told me that these people are called Raiders. When an animal dies, it becomes a body. I am just another stationary thing that cannot communicate. As I listen to the door of this room slam shut, as I feel hot tears pour down my cheeks, and as I feel blood seep out from between my legs, I make the decision to end my life. I remained there until the threat of discovery had passed. I heard John open the door, and muffled voices of greeting - almost as if they were speaking quietly, so as not to be overheard. I heard the doorbell ring, and thought to myself that it was an odd hour for anyone to come to the door, as late as it was. And, she could be left tied like that for hours, since the Quick-Tie was not painful, and created no stress on the arms or body. The ability to experience sensations is a gift that inanimate objects would envy, if they could. I usually had to pull the front of my dress or skirt up, so he could view my crotch area while sitting, and I was never allowed to wear pants. But I don't want to die, because death would be even worse. Of course I was always naked whenever I was tied up. In either case, my hands were pulled up over my head, and secured to the eyebolt in the ceiling. I remember asking my father if rape was worse than murder, and he said that he didn't know. I nodded my head again in affirmation as John, with his money, was sneaking out of the room. But now I barely notice the stench, or anything else, for that matter. If I refused to eat his food, or found a way to suffocate myself, or made him angry enough to kill me, then I would die.
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