Until recently, I never believed in black magic, witchcraft, or the occult. I was a woman who used to think that everything was explainable, and that nothing ever happened without a reason.

As I lay here on my back in the darkness with my legs spread wide because of the thick, sodden cotton stretched between my legs, I wonder how I could have possibly been so naïve.

I'm not sure what time it is; my guess is that it will be several hours before the sun comes up, but I am wide awake. My window is open, and I can feel a warm breeze and hear the occasional soft flapping of the curtain against the frame. The room isn't completely dark; I can distinctly see the mobile my thoughtful caretaker has mounted to the side of my crib. A school of shiny metal dolphins dance and play with every movement of air.

She's trapped me in a macabre world filled with ordinary objects that are suddenly extraordinary in size; a world occupied by impossibly gigantic people intent on constantly handling me, holding me, caressing me, until I think that the endless stimulation will drive me insane.

Now, resting quietly in the darkness, I am surprised to discover that I actually seem to have some degree of coordination. I kick my legs and I'm relieved to feel them move on my command; I reach out toward the mobile, and although I fall short, I see my chubby pink fingers swat clumsily at the floating dolphins.

She's encased me in a sleeping bag, a pink one-piece outfit with long sleeves and a drawstring at the bottom. In an effort to have some control over my environment, I roll quite efficiently to my stomach, a feat I find nearly impossible during the daytime. The plastic mattress beneath me crackles noisily and I'm suddenly afraid that the noise will wake Diane.

Diane: my lover, my friend, my confidant. We'd played all of the nighttime games together, happy dykes that we were; games that involved ropes and handcuffs, leather and leashes. But I realize now that it was a mistake to share all of my fantasies with her. I shouldn't have told her that I'd always found the idea of owning someone, or being owned overwhelmingly erotic. I shouldn't have told her that the thought of complete and utter helplessness left me shivering and wet. I shouldn't have told someone with powers like hers, but I didn't believe. God help me, I just didn't believe.

The singing of the birds signal that dawn is fast approaching. Savoring the solitude, I close my eyes for just a moment; when I open them again she is smiling down upon me, towering over me, a monstrous giantess with the worst intentions. My day begins.

Mammoth hands descend, like two prehistoric birds from a childhood nightmare. For a moment, I am airborne, then feel and smell the familiar comfort of the bed we used to share only days before.

In moments I am naked, squirming defenselessly on a towel spread out on our white satin bedspread. Gently, she washes me, wiping my body with a soft, sweet-smelling moist cotton cloth, methodically cleansing every crease. I close my eyes in a desperate attempt at avoiding reality. She suddenly stops and intentionally allows her hair to fall down across my skin, deliberately dragging her long blond tusses back and forth against my tiny torso.

I feel her hot breath, still smelling of toothpaste, and then she is upon me. Her soft lips and long, probing tongue are everywhere, consuming me, swallowing me whole. I am hers. Her plaything. Her toy. Her pet.

I'm glad that I told her. And I'm glad that she had the power to make it real.

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