There is a deceptive gentleness in his embrace.
I know from experience that tenderness like this always precludes the suffering he enjoys creating for me.
Only the means by which my suffering is to be inflicted is unknown. And that is the excitement, the anticipation and the need I have for what Master inflicts upon me in such innovative ways.
He knows this, knows all that I am, as he twists me around so that my back is to him and my body is pressed close to his. It is a subtle move that makes me face his full length mirror, so that I may watch my descent into the hell of ecstasy he has planned for me.
My body is white in contrast to the darkness of this room. He has arranged a single white spotlight to shine on me so that all else fades into subtle diffusion. There is only my naked self, and the shadowy silent figure of Master standing darkly behind me. I feel his heat, his need matching mine. Yet his desire is under control, while mine is not.
It is always like this.
He has the power to drive me out of my mind, rampant, urgent, unstilled; my wanting of what he has keeps me in his thrall, holds me to him tighter than any ropes or chains. He is not possessive of me, he has no need to be. Control such as this has its own bondage; it needs no external reinforcement.
Thus he controls me and makes me beg for more, no matter what suffering it may bring.
Our bodies seem to meld into a whole; mine naked and vulnerable, somehow proudly feminine, while he is clad, almost anonymously, in black leather. I feel it cool and harsh on my skin, a contrast to my nakedness that sends a shiver of anticipation through me. It is as if he is not there, that I am held prisoner in some disembodied way, I see only hands that come around to inflict suffering.
Such contrast between us defines who is dominant and who submissive, my certainty of what and who I am, here, now, as my Master prepares me for whatever suffering is to come. He does not speak because no words are necessary. Only his heat, and the stray brushing kiss on my neck betray his ultimate gentleness and his ability to inflict pain at the moment of his choosing.
A moment I cannot know.
His fingers hold a ball that invites a parting of my lips. I want to take it in my mouth, deep, to devour it for Him, yet there is a perversity that keeps my lips closed, fighting my own desires. There is a need to resist him, to prove that I own myself, while knowing that I do not. He teases, I want to hate his knowing of my needs like this, knowing that if I wish to silence the screams that are yet to come I must accept his gag. I feel my welcome of it as his other hand strays down as if to confirm my wanting of this monstrous violation. There is a moist and thrusting eagerness that tells him that I do, my closed mouth cannot continue with its lie.
He bites my neck in gentle remonstration.
I wince, knowing all that his mouth and teeth can do to me.
I want his gag as far in as he cares to force it. Yet still I refuse it, making his torture inevitable, the way I want it to be. His bite is harder now, and his probing fingers find my most tender spots, closing until he knows I can only scream at my flooding need of him. I open my mouth wide in desperate acceptance, in welcome of what it means to me. I take the ball with wanton eagerness, the silence it inflicts upon me will allow screams to be held in as I react to those tortures yet to come.
I watch the strap distend my cheeks in an obscene caricature of myself and a personification of the slut he has made me, wanting him to do this. There is that sensual sound of the strap rattling through the buckle, to what I think must be the last hole, then my sadist-lover finds another and the leather bites into my skin. It hurts. He knows that, and makes sure I suffer for him.
I can only make soft meaningless noises for him now.
His left arm slides behind my elbows and draws them slowly together. His strength overcomes mine and I will myself to force straining shoulders back to meet the demands of his control.
Back, back, overcoming every protest that I should reject this suffering, until elbows meet and crush together. A doubled length of rope encircles outraged arms with deceptive care, as though gentleness now will somehow soothe the flash of agony that will burn into me when the knots are tightened. More loops of rope, feeling each turn made with loving precision above my elbows, eight turns, a dozen, each loop placed snugly against the next for the aesthetic pleasure it gives to Master. Losing count there is a sensation of how I look as rope slowly wraps me into the self I want to be through such restraint. He knows so well how much I want this, to see my shoulders forced back so that my breasts are thrust forward in inviting prominence for him.
The flooding desire of it cannot be disguised and the naked reflection shows such squirming need of being bound, no matter what suffering the tightening ropes give.
The rope is threaded between my arms, drawn through and knotted tight. Normality would be to scream at such torture, but this is not normality, this is desire expressed for me by my Master as my thrusting back against him tells of the need for yet more of what is being freely given.
There is a growing hardness that my fingers search for, wanting to release the man I know him to be, to force desire to rise to meet that which has been created. He allows me to do that, it does not diminish his mastery of me. I know he will not take me until the moment of his choosing.
Cord tightens relentlessly down my arms, each twist of it jerked tighter than the last until they feel as one, leaving only fingers to encircle the throbbing flesh I have released. Rope is knotted cruelly into wrists flooding me with helpless ecstasy.
How is it that rope can do this to a woman?
The mirror reflects softly caressing hands that are free to reach any part of me. Legs part willingly to admit knowing fingers that find my moist welcome of them. They tease a little, waiting for a growing excitement to show itself, then enter slowly, slowly, forcing me down upon them, wanting more, deeper, always deeper. I watch myself squirm and writhe to be used like this, wanting, always wanting to be hurt in such tender ways. To feel his fingers finding the inner depths I so eagerly reveal to Him.
As my Master knows so well.
Then the maddening fingers are withdrawn, and trailed up to my hardened nipples then around my distended lips, to give me the scent of what I am, a desperate needy slut. His desperate needy slut.
Our reflected eyes meet in the mirror.
His smile softly. Mine beg wantonly.
His piercing look makes me lose my grip on reality as I drown in his waves of desire that wash over me, until I am engulfed. How is it that he can do this; having tied me a thousand times each one seems as fresh as the first time he took me into bondage and made me what I am.
My bound hands behind hold him tight, needing him so badly right now, knowing that I may not have him. The control of this man, that he can keep his hard desire for me and not surrender himself to my teasing fingers; tantalizing me in knowing that I cannot break his will no matter how I force myself against him. Yet I do it nonetheless, perhaps to show that I too have a will that he must know of.
He forces me to wait until the moment of his choosing, making me wait upon his eternity while suffering is prolonged into infinity.
It becomes a ballet, a dance of undisguised lust; his hands are free while mine are not. He knows my body like no other ever has, yet every inch of it expecting his touch, every place he finds on me feels as if it is the first time. Everything so new and fresh as nipples are brought to erect hardness, wet fingers caressed softly around them while I watch in a desperation that feeds upon itself.
As Master knows it must.
For that is his cruelty, to take me to the edge time after time and then deny me so that my need of him becomes uncontrollable. It is sadism driven by the need of the masochist, my need to suffer at his hand time and again.
And I silently beg him, plead with him to use me and go on using me like this; to do as he pleases only more of it.
With every tightening of the ropes, my self knowledge increases. They are used with cunning precision, another length looped through the elbow cords, then divided over my shoulders, jerked tightly upwards over my shoulders then down between my breasts, before being knotted tight again.
With hands coming from behind, he lifts my breasts with his rope until they are obscenely pointing out, hard nipples reflecting the desire he is creating. Twin orbs intended for his attention and my renewed suffering. Encircling them with ropes of exquisite symmetry, until they are hard, round, engorged with reflected lust for what I want him to do to them. Like the rest of my raging body, they await his teeth and tongue to shoot pain through me in flashes of exquisite agony. They create the vision that I know he wants, formed by the masterly use of bonds that hold me to him.
His fingers softly discover me again, and being bound cannot deny me the freedom to ride them, hard and deep, screaming and writhing under his total control of me, driving the need of more.
And I know there will be more.
