The Forest 

I’m lost in a forest of the tallest trees, inundated with wickedly bent, sinister trunks, and thicket so dense my feet can barely move, the air damp and heavy, sitting like rocks in my lungs.

Swiping and slashing, I claw at the overgrowth’s sharpness, aching to lift my legs and move, grasping for vines that might save me. Yet, I don’t want to be saved. I crave absolution. 

On tattered, tired, and bended knees, I offer you a ridged branch, begging for penance, desperate for your command, yearning for you to envelope me in the shelter of your palm. 

Help me be my vine.

And then I wonder, how heavy is that staff? Is the weight just too much?

You answer, you deliver. You take and give, give and take. With each strike, a little of you infiltrates me, suffocating the darkness, penetrating every fiber of muscle, saturating each porous bone, filling and filling until you seep up through every follicle and pore, spilling out and bending to my every contour, forming a shield upon my flesh that no thorn can puncture.

And now, I can weave my vine, with threads of you in the center, the strength in its core. 

Together we can conquer; we can see the forest though the trees. 

Home

Behind the soft brown scarf, she could see nothing but blackness. The precise squeeze on her nipples and the pinpointed pinch on her clit were just the right amount of pain-pleasure to keep her on edge. Arms cuffed above her head and legs tied with the prickly jute, calf to thigh, she was completely exposed to him, in more than flesh. Butterflies swirling in her belly, she folded into her smallness, anticipating him.

Her hearing hyper-aware, she picked up on the slight tinking of the metal pulls being lifted, then the gritty slide of wood against wood as he opened the red wood drawer. She knew which drawer it was as soon as she heard its uneven slide – it was the drawer of impact implements, and her heart began to race.

As she lay there waiting, breathing already a bit labored, the mini clothespins on her nipples were quickly becoming the center of her world, so much so that she forgot about the impact until she felt the whoosh of air, followed by the first landing. His releasing of the clothespin from her clit had caused a surge of blissful agony, followed by an engorged ache which thumped to the beat of her heart. It was so sensitive, she could feel even the slightest shift in the air, so the crop’s swift strike brought about a guttural, almost panicky scream. Oh, God. She knew there’d be more. And more.

The strikes came, in a quick rhythm, one after the other while he watched her face contort and her back arch in love-hate of every single strike. In that moment, her entire being focused on the sound of the crop on her tender, swollen skin, on the delicious, rhythmic pain on her clit and the glorious pinching of her nipples. 

Landing harder and harder, the strikes came in rapid succession, until he stopped, abruptly, leaving a silence that was just as loud as noise.

In her stillness, she heard the click of a button and a simultaneous buzz – she knew that noise! Oh, God, she knew. 

Strike, buzz, strike, buzz. Over and over. Again and again. 

There was nothing else, only he and her, the pinch and the strike and the buzz.

Layers of pain-pleasure flowed, one on top of the other, like conflicting currents, flooding her brain. Feeling the overwhelming evidence of her arousal, cool against the heat of each landing, she could even hear her wetness with each strike of the crop and pressing of the buzz.

Desperate for release, the humming in her center flowed outward to her surface, consuming her. It was all she could taste, all she could smell. She felt like she needed it more than she needed to breathe. The coil he had wound so deeply in her core was so tight, it pulled at her skin. It clenched every muscle and clamped shut her eyelids. She was afraid of its impending intensity; she was afraid of letting it go. 

But, it wasn’t a choice.

Ripping and slicing through her entire body, her orgasm took over. It was viscous and glorious and painfully heavenly, causing her to writhe and struggle against the restraints. The grunting and moaning sounds coming from the back of her throat didn’t even sound like her.

When she finally began to float back to earth, he pushed inside her, grinding and slamming into the puffy ache, pain-pleasure rocketing her body right back to the same heightened state from which she thought she’d returned, and then beyond. And further. Until he’d taken all he wanted from her.

Removing the scarf, he looked her in the eyes. All she saw was his dominance reflecting her surrender. Infinite love.

She saw home.

-image found on Tumblr, source unknown; included in Matsurbation Monday, week 130

The Librarian, Part 1

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“Excuse me, Ma’am?”

Fumbling behind the counter, the librarian quickly tried to act like nothing was going on.

Fuck! Can he see the blushing on my cheeks?

“How can I help you?,” she asked a little too quickly.

“I need to pay my fine.”

“Sure. May I see your card?”

Taking his card, she quickly looked up his account. He handed her the money, and without making too much eye contact, she gave him his change.

“Thank you. Have a great day,” she said with a nervous smile as he turned to walk away.

It felt like every patron knew that she had been stealing glances at Tumblr on her iPhone all afternoon long.

Do they notice the impatient squeezing of my thighs, as I try like hell to alleviate some of the throbbing pressure between my legs? 

Momentarily embarrassed, she felt how wet her panties were and realized she could smell her own arousal soaking through.

God, I’m at work, what am I thinking?

Yet, with each step she took, there was that chilly, wet reminder. The worst part was, it was making her even more turned on.

In a desperate attempt to get her mind back on her work, she went to the table area to see if there were any books needing to be re-shelved. It was then that she saw him. Felt him.

Oh, my, he’s beautiful.

His look caught her eye, to be sure, but it was more than that. His energy was heavy hheat in the air, instantly giving her goosebumps. As she walked closer, her chest tightened, her breathing becoming shallow and quick.

What is wrong with me? He’s just a guy!

But this feeling told her he wasn’t just a guy. There was something about him that made her want to feel things – his hands around her waist, his chest pressed against her own, his whiskers against her cheek as he whispered in her ear…..

It felt as if she already knew what he’d say when he whispered to her; as if he already knew her. She had to meet him. She had to hear his voice, see his eyes.

Luckily, there was a loose book on the edge of the table at which he was sitting, so she slowly made her way over, not yet trying to draw any attention. Just as she neared the opposite side of the table, he looked up from his paperwork. Briefly, he looked into her eyes, and her belly began doing backflips, but there was no doubt this man had lowered his eyes and was now staring at her chest.

Oh, shit! Am I disappointed? How could I be disappointed at his looking at my chest if I don’t even know him? 

It was crazy, she new, but she felt like she did know him, needed to know him. She was drawn to him, despite the fact he wasn’t trying to hide that he was admiring her tits. Maybe because of it.

Almost as if he had been hypnotized, his head snapped up, looking her squarely in the eyes, and he smiled, and unashamed smile.

Those eyes, oh God. And that smile – I could look at it all day long. Is that cockiness or confidence?

As her mind wandered, mesmerized, she accidentally knocked the book from the table to the floor. Without hesitation, she bent over just a little too far to pick up that book, knowing he’d have no choice but to look. She wondered if he’d notice how wet her panties were.

Actually, she hoped he’d notice.

-Image by Marcus Ross, found on Pinterest. This is an excerpt reworked from an old story, and shared again as part of Masturbation Monday. I realize the ‘naughty librarian’ thing has totally been overdone, but I couldn’t help it. I think I was a librarian in another life. Subsequent parts will be shared weekly. Hope you enjoy!

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Song of Passion


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

Time for Tea

*MATURE CONTENT* (also revised – I fixed some errors – I’m rusty at this, so please forgive the repost)

Finally, the girls had settled down and she’d gotten them tucked into bed. She exhaled in a deep sigh, walking down the short staircase, and went to the kitchen to do as he’d asked. Standing in front of the sink, Lana grinned as she put on the water for tea, hoping. She’d thought about him all day long. 

Behind her, she could hear the sure rhythm of strong footsteps approaching, and she could feel the butterflies begin to flutter in her belly.

How does he still do that? 

As he moved in quietly behind her, Rick leaned in and pressed himself against her, causing her to reach out and brace herself against the counter. Gently brushing her long, reddish-brown curls away from her ear, he whispered in his deep, scratchy voice, “Take off your clothes and come sit in front of my chair.”

Again, she did as he asked, first pulling her tan, linen blouse up and over her head, then she unbuttoned her dark, well-worn jeans. As she was lifting first her right leg to pull off her pants, then the left, she thought about how not long ago, she never would have done anything like this. It would have seemed ridiculous. 

Take off my clothes in the kitchen? Sit at his feet? Never, not in a million years. 

And now, as she unfastened her lacy, black bra, watching it fall at her feet, she realized she was not only willing, but compelled to do so. It fueled her.

Stepping out of her panties, the ones he’d chosen for her to wear just that morning, she walked to him, kneeling to sit at his feet, as usual. Because that’s where she has always belonged.

Sitting in his favorite chair, Rick leaned forward a bit to hand Lana the deep shade of red he’d chosen. “I’d like you to paint your toes,” he said. 

He sat back, and he watched. His eyes were drawn to the easy way in which she folded her knees up to her chest, not meaning to show off, but exposing herself to him, nonetheless. As she leaned over to paint, the delicate way in which she pinched the polish brush between her first two fingers, the gentle manner in which she swiped the drips from the brush onto the edge of the bottle just so, biting her bottom lip in concentration, the way she glided the brush across each nail with precision and grace – it drove him mad. She is so damn irresistible. 

Just as she finished the last nail, Rick rested on his knees in front of her, and locking her gaze, he wound the jute around her ankles, round and round, up and through the middle, the exquisite mix of the roughness of the rope and the softness of his touch sending shivers through her. 

Not at all what she’d expected, Lana was immediately off-balance, watching him, waiting to see what he expected of her, the anticipation building. 

As he handed her the polish again, expecting to watch as she so nimbly began painting her fingernails, the tea kettle whistled and beckoned to her. Her eyes moved up to meet his gaze again, and she said with a grin, “It’s gonna be really difficult to bring you that tea without spilling it.” 

Such a smart ass, but I wouldn’t change a thing, he thought to himself. 

Rick chuckled, stood, walked to the kitchen, calmly taking the kettle off the burner and returned to her.

“The tea and nails can wait, but I cannot,” he told her, bending to scoop her in his arms…

-photo credit Natashi Monko, found on Tumbr

His Shadow

MATURE CONTENT, INTENDED FOR  18+

Strong, work-hardened fingers gently move the dark brown curls away from my face, pulling it to a bunch behind my head in His fist, and resting my right cheek on the ottoman. Instinctively, my eyes turn down toward Him as he speaks, kneeling behind me. “Watch My shadow,” He commands lovingly, His open palm pinning my head in it’s position.

Illuminating the room, the light seeps through the crack in the laundry room door, just bright enough. My eyes do see. They see the silhouette of a man, it seems.

Against His palm, my jaw opens in an involuntary inhaled breath, as my eyes watch that Shadow’s hips plunge forward, impaling me, reaching my end with one deliberately slow thrust. Then, it pauses.

Do you like that?,” I hear, in my Sir’s voice. “Yes, Sir,” I reply, breathy with desire. “Tell me you want more,” that same compassionately stern voice demands of me. And I tell him. I tell His voice I want more. And more. Oh, please.

Keep your eyes open and watch My shadow,” my Sir’s voice directs me again, and I see the Shadow’s jaw move as He speaks.

Then, Shadow begins His dance with me. His hips move in a fierce rhythm, back and forth, as Sir’s palm continues to pin my head to the ottoman, ensuring my eyes must continue to watch. Warm, gripping fingers firmly hold my hip bone at the same time, pulling me back in sync with the thrusts, quick and deep. I feel every inch of Him, smooth and warm, to the end, then back again, until the ridge of His swollen head catches on my entrance, momentarily threatening to leave it’s home, then plunging forward again. A few swift swats land on both cheeks, a radiating burn on top of those stingy welts made with the crop and the snaps and slaps from the brown suede flogger.

I feel Sir’s shifting body behind me, the warmth of His skin on mine, those swats that take my pleasure to a realm I never knew was possible. Yet, all the while, it is Shadow I see, moving against me, moving in me, with me.

Sir’s hand no longer holds my head in place, but I don’t dare move it. I’m mesmerized. Hands which I know belong to my Sir hold my shoulders, His fist grips in my hair, His hands deliver strikes and His fingers dig into my flesh, gripping and pulling as He pleases. Yet it is Shadow who throws his head back, his back rhythmically arching and straightening, coiling all his strength and desire into each fluid, hungry movement.

Behind me, I hear the grunting through clenched teeth, heavy sighs and guttural breathing. I know those sounds, I’ve heard them all before, so many times. But, it is Shadow making them, my eyes can’t be deceiving me. Shadow means to consume me, I can hear it. I can feel it in the air around us.

Please, may I come for you?,” I ask, over and over again, my voice, shaky with need, pointing directly at Shadow, begging. “Yes, you may come for for me,” Sir replies, every time.

And then the awe overwhelms me. It registers in me that they are one in the same. This man I’ve loved for 23 years has transformed, his hidden, primal nature finally out in the open, in control.

Devour me,’ I think to myself, He and His Shadow hovering over me.

*Trying like hell to articulate something which feels profound as I compose a post in progress, and took a break to read and get some inspiration. Gave this one a quick face lift, thought I’d share.

-image found on Pinterest

Hot Guy


There’s this really handsome guy sitting in my living room. Lounged back in the chair, he’s sort of off-center, one leg swung over the arm and the other propped up on the ottoman. He’s wearing a really soft looking, gray, four button polo shirt and Levi’s that hug his ass just right. My eyes are drawn to the curve of his ass nestled on the edge of the cushion. I wish I could touch it – start at the top near his back and run my hand over that curve, feeling the muscled firmness against my palm. Maybe keep going, down his thigh, traveling to the inside, up to that bulge that seems to be taunting me from across the room.

Brow furrowed, his attention is focused on the new game he’s playing on the TV. Fingers swiftly moving over the white remote, pushing and gliding, his hands periodically shaking it with an abrupt up and down motion, and my mind begins to wonder….what else might those fingers and hands be good at, right now? They look so strong and able…

Every so often, the tip of his tongue pushes on his bottom lip until he unconsciously moves his lip down, making his tongue pop out to rest on top of it, his teeth clenching down, holding it in place. Ahhh, like he’s doing, right now. It’s so damn sexy. Glistening and slightly wet, it’s a dark shade of pink. I bet it’s so warm and nimble. I imagine his mouth is just as talented as his hands. I bet he tastes amazing.

I think he sees me watching him, but I can’t help it. My cheeks are flush, I’ve shifted in my seat at least a dozen times, and even crossed my legs, trying to give myself a bit of relief. He’s driving me crazy.

Oh, my. He just beat the level he was playing and turned to look at me, with a smile. Meeting my gaze, the room fell away. His eyes, oh, wow. What an entrancing shade of deep green, and so happy. And that smile! He smiles and I melt. I could look at that smile for the rest of my life.

“I love you,” he says.

Instantly, I’m reminded that I know all about that handsome man with the perfect ass and yummy thighs. I know what lies beneath those Levi’s. I know his strong, able hands, and all about that talented tongue. I know just how he tastes and smells, I know just how he feels about me. I know exactly how his body feels with mine. It fits. We fit.

And I’m reminded that I get to – I get see that smile, for the rest of my life.

I’m smiling, too.

*Happy Father’s Day to my M… thank you for making babies with me!

*ass pic credit Pinterest

On the Rocks

*MATURE CONTENT


Easing herself into the eggplant-colored leather of the chair, she leans back and unties her robe. Grasping the soft, fleecy fabric, she opens it, letting it come to rest against her sides. Bending her knees, she pulls her feet up to the cushion on either side of her ass, planting a heel against each armrest, opening her legs so she is on display for him, just as he’s asked.

Reaching in to her right robe pocket, she retrieves the new vibrator he’d slid in there a few moments ago. Now, she’s ready.

Behind her, in kitchen, as she patiently waits, she hears the creak of the cupboard door, the tinking of his wedding band against the glass as his fingers embrace it, his strong hand scooping ice cubes from the basin in the freezer. He’s going to pour himself a glass of the Basil Hayden’s she just bought him. She knows what he’s going to do once he pours it and comes to her, he told her so. The anticipation has her breathing so rapidly she’s shivering beneath her goosebumps.

As she sits, the room is silent, except for the sounds he’s making – now, the clink of cubes into the glass, the snap and rip of the paper seal and the pop of the cork as the bottle is opened, the glug, glug, glug of the bourbon as its poured from the bottle. She listens as the cubes crackle when the liquid warms them and their clanking together and against the sides of the glass as they begin to float. Then, his slow, easy footsteps and the rattling of those cubes as he approaches makes her chest rise and fall in deep shudders, her brow slightly furrowed. She’s a little nervous. It’s never been quite like this before.

As he rounds the chair, their eyes meet, and he grins. Oh, God, that grin. That grin of pride and power; it makes her smolder, but it also makes her want to do whatever it takes to keep seeing that grin. To keep feeling that look in his eyes. The look that says, “You are MINE.”

He sits on the floor a few feet in front of the chair, one leg crossed in front of him and the other bent at the knee as he rests his arm on top of it, holding his drink.

“I want you to do what I asked you to do earlier. You can start now.”

She knows exactly what he means; she never forgets his instructions.

Pushing the button on the base of the bullet shaped vibe, she presses three times, taking it to the most powerful setting. Watching him watching her, she presses the tip to herself, gasping at the fierceness of the vibrations, muscles clenching all the way through her legs, curling her toes. She tries to focus on him, on the way his eyes light up at each gasp or twitch she makes, at the way he sips that drink and licks his lips as he stares at her, at the grin that seems to get more thirsty, despite the draining of the liquid in his glass. Yet, her brain keeps sidetracking with worry she’ll disappoint him, feeling a bit of performance anxiety.

Although she’s done this for him so many times before, this time feels different. She feels as if she is not only on display, but as if she is truly performing for him. Not in the way one might perform on a stage pretending or acting, not at all. She feels the most vulnerable she’s ever felt, completely exposed and in this predicament solely and formally for his entertainment and pleasure. Simply because he wanted to watch, and she wanted nothing more than to please him.

“Close your eyes and relax,” he says, tenderly. “Just focus on how it feels, that’s it.”

Immediately closing her eyes, she slows her breathing and isolates in her mind the feeling of the vibe, moving it slowly in a circular motion on the spot that drives her crazy. She focuses on each buzz and hum, on every pulsing sensation in her core, on the radiating heat meeting the cool air on the surface of her skin. She listens to the sound of her own breathing. 

Within a few minutes, she feels the telling, emanating heat and tension overcoming her. With abandon, she moves the vibe and bucks her hips until she’s so close she fears she might topple over that edge, then she takes the vibe away, just as he wishes. Cupping her mound with her hand, she pants and allows the feeling to wain a bit, before she begins again on the next lowest setting as per his instructions. Taking much less time to reach that clenching heat, she opens her eyes and feels him watching her. That look on his face, the intensity of it baring her – it fuels her, stripping away any remaining anxiety. It’s a look not only of adoration in his eyes, it’s hunger. It’s ownership.

On the last and lowest setting, she is so aroused and so engorged, the vibe feels slower, but so deep and rumbly. She slows her breathing. She looks into his eyes. She is HIS. The buzzing is intense and methodical, sending sensations straight to the muscles which haven’t quite relaxed. They take root, causing the beginnings of the contractions that will grip her whole being if she doesn’t back off. Not daring to displease him, she removes the vibe and squeezes her thighs together, throwing her head back in a long, exhaling moan.

Pressing that button three times again, she returns the vibe to the most powerful setting. Just the sound of the buzzing has her squeezing her muscles in both anticipation and fear. Oh, fuck, she loves to hate it! She knows it’s going to be so intense that she’ll want to beg to stop and she’ll want to beg for more. When she does finally come, she knows she’s going to fucking explode. For him.

Opening and closing, her eyes clench and release with the waves of pleasure. She watches him, that look on his face one of possession – she’s feeling a bit like prey. Willingly so, and she can’t wait to be taken. Her body writhes and undulates to the vibrations taking over. She continues to move and feel and become that look in his eyes and that grin on his face.

The pressure becomes so intense she stills herself, bracing for what she knows is about to happen. The orgasm grips her. Every muscle in her body responds. Her back arches, hips lifting off the cushion as she closes her eyes and bites her lip to keep the scream from escaping and waking the girls. 

Before she even opens her eyes, he’s in front of her, fingers entering and massaging her, sending her flying, again and again, wetness pooling on her turquoise robe.
Finally, he lets her body rest, but only briefly.

“Turn it on again, the highest setting.”

The look on her face must have been rather surprised and questioning.

“Don’t move it until I say to.”

“Yes, Sir.”

Following his instructions, she presses the vibe to her sweet spot, now fairly tender. As she does, she hears the sound of the ice clanking in the glass again. And that grin….oh, my. Now, it’s hungry and devious. Gliding that cube over each nipple, he circles and holds it on each peak briefly. She picks up the faint smell of the bourbon as it slides over her warm skin, leaving a cool, trickling trail, making its way over her abdomen and down her legs. Her low moans and gasps only add to his pleasure, it’s obvious.

He reaches down one last time for a new cube and concentrates on her mound. Up and down, tracing her folds with the tip of the moon shaped piece of ice, threatening to enter her, holding it in place at her opening until she bucks at the stinging, cool sensation. When he moves the ice, his fingers enter her again, the heat of his fingers on her cold skin sending shivers up her entire body, culminating in those muscles deep in her core. She has no control over her body’s response – her arm flails and grips the arms of the chair, her hips rock and her heels dig into the leather. Her eyes close so tightly her head begins to hurt.

“Okay,” he says and she finally removes the vibe.

When she opens her eyes, she sees him. He is sitting back, smiling, and chewing that last piece of ice in his glass, obviously very pleased with his evening, on the rocks.

Reworking of an old post, as I make M his favorite drink….happy  long weekend!

The Sound of Silence

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
over.

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. 

Tink.

Thump.


Thwack.

Silence

Two As One

“Are you okay?,” he asks as he rests her back onto her knees, his finger lightly brushing a stray strand of hair from her face after setting the soft brown suede and thick purple floggers to the side. Listening for her answer, his finger continues its path down her cheek, it’s roughness quite gentle against her delicate skin, tracing the line of her jaw and traveling slowly downward along the length of her neck, stopping to dip into the crevice just behind her collarbone. With a pinch between his thumb and forefinger, he squeezes and caresses its length, beginning near her shoulder and ending at the circular reservoir at her throat.

“Yes, Sir,” she replies, but her voice is unsteady. Willing her eyes to keep his gaze, her body deceives her, unable to mask the swell of emotion within her….because there is no more mask. She can no longer hide from him. When she speaks, her eyes fall slightly from his, her ragged breath sounding almost like a whimper.

Continuing its trace downward, his finger grazes her skin like a well traveled route on the map of her flesh, leaving her skin only briefly as it makes its way over the rope. As it does, the slight pressure on the rope causes her to be acutely aware of its spiny texture pressing further into her skin. In an instant, goosebumps begin to form, a shivering ripple over her flesh, a reminder of those heavenly vibrations combined with his intimate touch as the rope was applied not long before, and only compounded by the recent floggy deliciousness on her back and bottom. Flooded with a tidal wave of arousal, it’s as if each individual goosebump is a silent scream, her body fiercely crying out to him. Begging for him. When she feels his finger begin circling inward around her entire breast to its center, giving her nipple an abrupt and firm pinch and tug, her whimper is clearly audible. Again, her eyes fall downward.

“No, there’s no being embarrassed, look at me,” he lovingly commands, tipping her chin upward with a finger underneath.

Kneeling before him, bound by him not only by rope, she cannot bear to look him in the eyes. Consumed with need, she’s overwhelmed in him, her body trembling and quaking. Never has she been in such a heightened state of arousal and responsiveness, so acutely aware of her existence as HIS, so profoundly yearning for him, waiting and anticipating what is to come. This feeling, it’s the most exposed she has ever felt, so much so that she’s almost embarrassed in her dire state of need for him. Her barest self, her surrendered soul calling out to him. Needing him and completely at his mercy.

But…her need is not a craving for release which has overcome her…it’s the need for more….more of him. She desperately needs to give him more of herself. And more and more, until he has taken all he wants and needs, until there’s nothing more of her to give. Until it feels as if he’s wholly consumed her, held wide open his chest and she’s crawled inside, exhausted in him. Two as one, the way they were meant to be.

At his request, her eyes obey, how could they not? She trusts him with all that she is. They tell him, he knows. And again, he begins….