As I start to pull out of your driveway, I stop, immediately covered with goosebumps as I realize that you moved the seat back when you went to buy milk this morning. Yes, this morning. You took my car out while I lay naked and tied to your bed. You left me there, alone and tied, and rather than despair at this, I let go of all sense of myself, luxuriating instead in my incapacity to do anything but doze off, wander within my own mind–even with your plug filling my ass–your soft comforter covering me in the faintly sunlit room.
You hint while we are out walking about things I forgot on your birthday. We come back to your house, and you beg me for your spanking. That wonderful chair in the corner of your bedroom, you bent over my lap as I hold you down, pull down your briefs just enough to slap you once for every year.. hard. Harder than I ever meant to, but making me wet as I chance to slap you more–intoxicating–only to hear you whimper, watch you bounce back and flinch. All the way to this year… you compliant as I scoot to the end of the chair and plant my heels on your shoulders and push your head down. Good. Good.
We kiss, fuck. You ask me to tie you up. And I do. I go through your dresser drawers to find the restraints, the whips, the dildo, and I let at you, thrashing you to your outer bounds–or one would think. Intense, yes, but can I find your limit? You grasp at the restraints, breathing slowly. But you still want more. No. You never beg me to stop, I fear not, though I stop at last, your ass hot to my touch, red. You, quivering beneath the covers, calming, as I calm myself from the delight of watching your reactions.
I whip you again in the morning, waking next to you, letting you fuck me hard, and then wanting you all the more, aggressively, as I hold your wrists down and climb on top of you, biting and kissing you, my prey, my delicious lusty fuck meal.
I am exhausted now, dear, undone by the intensity of the experience… your voice carrying me through my own pain as you whip me, promising more, pushing me just a little more, asking me if I want more… and yes, yes I do. I pause, then tell you yes. Spank me one more time, don’t stop. And I shiver, awaiting it as you talk gently to me. And then I break into tears, none sad, but cathartic as I hold you, and you stroke my hair and tell me I am beautiful.
Where are the limits in this? I remember still holding that small red whip in my hand for the first time, running it over your naked legs, stunned at the power that I held there when I hit you and you loved it. I loved it. I feared it, a little, feared my own excitement at the reactions I could pull from you.
How has it come to this? How have we unleashed this craving for this exchange? for the intense vulnerability and trust as we push our physical capacity, and more than that, our emotions? Unleashing the demons, playing with them until they run far away, along with the everyday, the mundane. Finding the sublime in moments stripped of all but the moment itself, the whip, our bodies, our minds.