The striking is rhythmic, melodic, even. Rigid, thicker, and with much less bend and vibration than all the others, the oak makes contact with her sit bone muscles and her thighs, over and over and
Thwack. Thwack. Thwack. Thwack.
No matter how hard she tries, she can’t keep her thoughts from distracting her focus. The deep ache of each unrelenting strike, especially the ones which land on the same spot again and again and again, beckons to her, willing her to let it all go.
When he pauses, she feels his palms travel up her back, cupping and squeezing the rising welts on her behind and down her upper thighs. She listens to the words he’s whispering in her ears. She knows what he desires. More than anything, she wishes to give him just that.
Closing her eyes, she leans back ever so slightly into each strike, hoping the extra momentum will silence the invasive voice. Her voice.
Yet, there it is again, telling her things she just doesn’t care to hear, things she desperately wishes not to think. In frustration, she whimpers, gripping and pulling at the sheets.
Why can’t I let go? Please, oh, please, just let go.
Attempting to relax into the sensations, she exhales, lowering her forehead to the cool sheet. Fingers twisting into the sheet, knees firmly planted and sinking slightly into the mattress, she breathes, in and out, savoring each thud that takes her breathe away. She shivers a bit with every cool whoosh of air, her breathing naturally beginning to pace itself with the oak rhythm.
That’s when she hears it, the tink-tinking of the metal ring at the dip in her neck, feeling it’s tink-vibration travel through the circling leather on which it rests. Slowing, it registers that it matches the beating of her heart.
The room fades away, and there’s only the tink-thump, and the vibrating hum deep inside her, desperate and building, begging to be released, the one matching, no, dependent upon, the thwacking on her behind.
Tink. Thump. Thwack.