With mind games

"Do you deserve this?" Mr. Jingles asks, his voice dripping with a mix of mockery and false sympathy. His question hangs in the air like a dark cloud, intensifying the weight of my already heavy burden.

My initial reaction is one of defensiveness, a knee-jerk response fueled by pride and denial. "No, of course not," I wanted to say, to lash out against the implication that I somehow deserved this.

His laughter echoes inside the suffocating confines of the costume, sending shivers down my spine. "Oh, Felicia, you brought this upon yourself," he says, his tone tinged with amusement. "You made your bed, now lie in it."

His words sting like a slap in the face, a cruel reminder of the choices that led me to this point. Do I deserve this torment? Perhaps in some twisted way, I do. But deep down, I know that no one deserves to be subjected to this level of humiliation and degradation. Tears pricked at the corners of my eyes as I grappled with the weight of Mr. Jingles' question, knowing that there were no easy answers, no simple absolutions.

Mr. Jingles' second question lands like a heavy blow, catching me off guard amidst the whirlwind of emotions and physical discomfort. The accusation in his voice cuts deep, stirring a tumultuous mix of conflicting thoughts and feelings within me.

"Do you enjoy this?" His words echo inside the suffocating confines of the costume, dripping with skepticism and a hint of sadistic amusement.

My initial instinct is to vehemently deny any semblance of enjoyment. The thought of finding pleasure in my current predicament feels absurd and repulsive, a notion I'm quick to dismiss.

Yet, as I reflect on the tumultuous rollercoaster of sensations I've endured—the relentless tickling, the suffocating heat, the humiliating loss of control—I'm **** to confront a disturbing truth buried deep within my psyche.

There's a sickeningly small part of me, buried beneath layers of shame and self-loathing, that finds a perverse thrill in the chaos and powerlessness of my situation. A twisted masochistic impulse that thrives on the adrenaline rush of fear and humiliation.

The realization hits me like a ton of bricks, leaving me feeling nauseous and disgusted with myself. How could I entertain such perverse thoughts in the midst of my suffering?

"No," I finally **** out, my voice trembling with a mixture of revulsion and self-disgust.