Thwap, slap. Thwap, slap. She’s acutely aware of the smell of the leather in the air, of the changing sounds of instruments measured by the differing displacement of the air around her. Landing across her ass cheeks, one, then the other, sometimes both at once, up her back and down her thighs, the implements create a cacophony of sensation – prickly strings of heat, lingering, deep, sweltering aches made from the ricochet, vibrations traveling wood as it strikes, the pulsing waves of pain that reach each and every nerve ending, culminating in the wetness between her legs. Then the warmth of his palm caressing the stinging burn.
Eyes tightly closed, she feels the pill of the paisley fabric, soft against her exposed flesh. Her reddish brown curls cascade onto her shoulders, flowing over to rest on her jawline as she’s bent over the ottoman. Above her head on either side, her wrists rest, bound in the purple and black buttery softness of the cuffs, strung under the ottoman and held in place by the tie from her robe. Beneath her, her chest heaves in heavy breaths between quick hisses of inhaled air. The most intense pain/pleasure causes her to hold her breath in her body’s attempt to absorb and feel every bit of the impact, as her brain is challenging itself to relax and savor, to fully let go. To finally exhale. That’s what he desires.
Every few sets, she can feel his radiating warmth nearing her side, just before his breath reaches her cheek as he speaks, before his hands begin to roam her flesh. “Are you okay, Love?,” he always asks, this time gently moving her hair from her cheek with his finger so he can see into her eyes. As he does, her low moans escape lips unconsciously opened, forming an ‘O’ as she feels his fingers gliding over the ridges of the welts and tingling spots, again and again. Sliding down between her legs, his middle finger seeks evidence that he’s pushing her to a place he needs her to be. “You’re dripping wet. Do you want more?,” he asks. Eyes never leaving his, she replies, “Yes, Sir, I want more, please,” almost begging. Oh, God, she needs more.
Unrelenting, the strikes continue in rapid succession, intermingled with the brief, soft touch of his hands. Focused, she concentrates on the sharp, biting ribbons of pain. She’s on fire, a fast, increasingly fervent blaze taking over her entire being. Entirely in the moment, she is simply feeling him. As each instrument lands, instead of holding her breath, she feels the freedom to exhale with her voice, her screams echoing against the walls, her excited breaths filling the spaces between. It doesn’t take many more before her focus comes to a peak, and she internally slows. There is no more external sound. There’s only a rhythm she feels deep within her – the ga gong, ga gong of her heart beating against her chest, the musical thump and reverberation of implements absorbed through her skin, the comfort of the shift in the air behind her.
Now, she is truly alive in him; they are one entity. Control and complete surrender; love.