November 27, 2012 Writing
“Close your eyes,” she said.
“I’m afraid,” he said, closing them anyway.
“Good,” she said, and he felt her breath tickle his ear.
“Don’t move,” she said.
“I won’t,” he said.
“Even when I do this?” she asked, and he felt the cold edge of a steel blade lightly touching his skin, raising goose bumps.
“No,” he said.
“Good boy,” she said.
“Wear my collar?” Her breath in his ear was punctuated with a nip.
“Yes. Please.” He felt it circle his neck, heard the jangle of the steel rings.
“Give me your wrists,” she said.
Wordlessly he held his hands out in front of him, and stood still, eyes closed, as he felt the heavy leather being clasped around them.
He felt her pull his wrists together and heard the snick of the clip joining them. The metal was cold against his belly.
He felt the swish of her robe, silky and soft, and caught the scent of perfume as she brushed by him, moved around him.
He jumped when the blow of her hand fell on his ass, more from surprise than pain, and was rewarded by her laugh.
“You moved,” she said.
“I’m sorry,” he said.
There was another rustle of silk and he heard movement behind him. He pictured her looking, picking, choosing, finding just the perfect thing, for him.
Unknowingly, he smiled.
Her hand wrapped around the collar and tugged him down, kissed him once, pulling away before he could gather his thoughts to return the kiss.
He felt her fingers run from the collar, down his chest, over his hip and down along the shaft of his cock, cupping and weighing it.
“You’re hard,” she said.
“I am,” he agreed.
“For me?” she asked.
He nodded. “For you.”
She pushed on his shoulder, and he bent over, resting his hands on the footboard of the bed.
He felt the caress of the cane on the back of his leg, right where ass joined thigh.
“Wear my mark?” she asked.
He smiled again. “Yes, please.”
He felt the air displaced as the cane swept through it, and held his breath, waiting.
The blow landed, a bright pain, red exploding behind his eyes, pulling a gasp from him then robbing him of his breath for a few seconds.
Then the pain bloomed, growing into a slow burn, and he remembered to breath then, to submerge himself into it until there was nothing but the sweep of air, the bright pain, the slow burn.
There would be bruises, and welts, a pattern he could feel in the dark, tracks that his fingers could trace. He would feel the marks inside his skin and outside both.
He felt the brush of her hair as she leaned into him.
“For me?” she said.