Tonight, his chosen instrument is unlike any other he’s used. It’s beautiful, with a long shaft of soft walnut brown and an earthy smell. Slightly lighter in feel and a bit more flexible than oak, it is bound to create a unique feel upon her skin. When he holds it, he looks much like a conductor….and he is.
As her eyes close, she slowly exhales, all the warm air leaving her lungs. Her forehead leans slightly forward, making contact with the wall, the coolness of the light gray paint chilly against her flush skin. Inside, there is silence, but it is not a silence absent of sound or feeling. It is the silence born between them. The silence OF them.
Behind her, she hears his movements – the slide and shuffle of his feet on the floor, the spectacular whoosh and whip of the walnut through the air, varying with every stroke, the sharp crack and whip as the walnut meets her skin. From her own lips, there’s the involuntary hissing intake of air or low moan as each strike lands. Sometimes there’s even a stifled scream or the rapid rise and fall of her chest and eyes which fill with tears. It hurts, but the pain is brief, it is only on her surface. In an instant, it is absorbed, transforming into a deeply penetrating, aching pleasure, a tantalizing combination that makes her want more. And more. It’s deliciously overwhelming.
With each strike, the contact with her skin causes a chain reaction. The displaced cool air as the walnut cane makes its way toward her backside is a sharp contrast to the instant ribbon of burn as it lands, but then, oh god…then her body begins to truly play his tune. The wood which looks so rigid bends and flexes slightly with her contours, and it vibrates. The silky vibrations travel the length of the cane and back to his hand, back and forth, an endless loop until it’s pulled away and readied again.
Awakened by that bite of pain, her flesh is alive and her mind made open, acutely aware and ready for what is to come.
Every single buzz of vibration creates a radiating hum that travels from the surface of her skin, deep into her bones, and it never dies. That hum remains, it’s melodious rumble becoming louder and louder, taking up more and more space inside her, taking over. She welcomes it.
Unclipping her from the cuffs which were bound to the wall, he lies her face down on the bed, still humming. Gently, he strikes her back and works his way down the length of her, increasing in intensity, turning her over to do the same on her front, the harmonious whiz and whir of vibration absorbed with each and every strike, her body a melody, a constant hum barely contained by her skin. It’s so loud, she wonders if he can feel it too. The look in his eyes makes her believe he can. And when he touches her, that hum is no longer contained. It overflows into him, and he into her. She is the verse to his chorus, the lyrics to his chords.
Together they are the sweet song of passion.
-photo found on Tumblr; shared as part of Kayla Lord’s Masturbation Monday prompt