Apology

Life has been filled with things not suitable for this particular blog so instead, here's a quick little sketch that I've unearthed in my files.


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The door opens with a soft whine and she tenses, pulling on the bonds without thinking. She cannot see the person walking in, chained as she is facing the wall, but she knows it's him. His voice is soft and comes from so far away that she decides he must be standing right in the doorway.

"Are you ready to apologize?"

There's silence as she bites her lip, barely suppressing a sob and yet unwilling to speak. She doesn't dare admit that she no longer remembers the verbal transgression for which she's being punished. The details fled her mind almost the moment he left her alone; the moment her mind began to drift. This must be what being high on drugs is like, she remembers thinking absently.

His return now has pulled her back to reality but the resurfacing is abrupt and jars her into tensing and feeling stupidly self-conscious. How ridiculous since he's seen it all. Still, being on display and yet unable to see in return is excruciating. One of those things she doesn't think she'll ever get used to.

"Very well..."

She gasps softly, tightening her muscles in a wordless plea for him to stay, to not leave her alone again. Like an air bubble, the safeword floats to her lips and she grits her teeth, savagely clenching her jaws, swallowing it before it can escape. The door clicks shut again and she slumps against the wall, resting her burning cheek against its rough, cool expanse.

Her arms are chained to bolts above her, spread at the same wide angle as her legs which are chained to the floorboards. On a bed, she'd be spread-eagled, beguilingly inviting. But instead, she's on her feet, stretching up, naked except for her ever present fuck-me heels and black, thigh high stockings.

A sigh that ends in a plaintive, barely audible moan brings tears to her eyes, but before the treacherous tokens of weakness can roll down her cheeks, she hears an unmistakable swishing sound. She has less than a millisecond to react before the rush of air is followed by the feel and sound of a heavy, multi-stranded flogger striking bare flesh. Her gasp seems unnaturally loud but on its heels comes another strike and now the tears flow freely.

Tears of relief and submission; tears of apology.

The show

A little sketch for the enjoyment of the voyeurs out there...

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When she enters the playspace, every head turns. People involved in their own scenes pause for a moment to watch the petite form moving through the parting crowd. Barely five feet tall, she carries herself with the unconscious bearing of an ice princess. Head held high, her posture is imperiously straight through the line of a bare back. In the dimly lit playspace sudden snatches of light dance on her pierced nipples as she walks.

The eyes that follow her take in the firm buttocks framed by a black web of a gossamer thin thong and the taut legs encased in silky black thigh-high stockings. Six inch heels click a staccato of control through the hushed space. Silently, she moves through the little groups of watchers and players, clearly one of them but different enough for their gazes to trail after her in curious fascination.

Even more jarring than the sudden jolt of energy created by her entrance, is the leash snaking from the tight black collar encircling her slender throat. The man holding the other end of it is almost an afterthought in her wake. And yet, a single glance at his calm and impassive face makes it clear that this strange and beguiling creature belongs to him. And now the eyes are on both of them, slipping from one to the other, as if attempting to discern the meaning of the unlikely pairing.

She stops under a recently vacated suspension frame and gracefully sinks to her knees, her hands resting palms up on her thighs, her face lifted up to him in rapt attention. The men in the room watch him; envious questions clear in the barely concealed curiosity. Who is he? What has he done to get her, to tame her?

His eyes give nothing away as he drops the lead into her lap and steps back. She shudders, but doesn’t move; continuing to watch him from her position on the floor.

His lips part as he speaks to her but neither his face nor her expression reveals the content of his message. In response, she reaches for his hand and bows her head briefly, kissing his fingers. Still on her knees, she leans back, lifting her arms and stretching until she’s resting on her back on the floor. Her body arches up, in a graceful backward bow, arms crossing at the wrists, continuing the line of her back, palms still facing up. It is a pose of aching vulnerability and surrender.

He moves to stand astride her, his boots framing her waist, engendering a cascade of shivers down the slender frame beneath him. The silent audience watches as his hands deftly work on the wooden beams above him. Soon, various lengths of colorful hemp hang down and once again his lips part, issuing further commands.

The motionless body tenses and changes shape, moving gracefully into the strands of rope, accepting their captivity. His hands skate over her, forming loops and ties and twists until suddenly, with a final tug, she’s flying. A suspended study of shifting form and beauty; a macabre vision of requited love and trust and submission.

The flogger swishes through the air, greeting the waiting flesh and the audience sighs in appreciation. The show has begun.

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Longing...

Last night I saw a movie. It was the second time for this particular movie but it didn't get any better. It's poorly made and the acting is mostly horrendous with a few bright spots that do not unfortunately manage to salvage it. I wasn't watching it for the acting though, I was watching it for the content. I was watching it because I wanted to feel part of it.

I've written before about my love/hate relationship with the book Story of O. On my other blog, in the list of books you'll note that I recently read the sequel, Return to the Chateau. Don't bother picking it up, it's not worth the hour or two you'd spend leafing through it. Story of O is intriguing, puzzling, infuriating, and ultimately unfulfilling, but it's still worth reading. Return to the Chateau is none of those things. Instead, it's a shining example of why "quit while you're ahead" is such an enduring phrase.

I just cannot seem to reconcile myself with the lack of well-written books on the subject of BDSM and D/s specifically. Story of O, for all its failings, is beautifully written and I only regret that I'm unable to read it in the original. But it's the exception rather than the rule and I've lost count of how many books I've picked up and forced myself to slog through only to find that my original assessment was correct and they weren't worth reading. So why do I keep trying?

To say that I'm a masochist would be too simple of an explanation and it would also be wrong. I may be something of a masochist when it comes to physical pain, but not when it comes to reading badly written books. That's not masochism, it's an exercise in boredom and frustration.

I keep trying because I haven't lost hope of finding a book that combines both beautiful language and an engaging and believable story. I long for a story that I can read and relate to. One that can excite and touch me. What I wouldn't give for a story that inflames the senses and quickens the breathing. A story that makes you want to recreate the words in real life.

I long to find a book that speaks to me but instead I keep coming across crippled stories. They seduce me with a lovely and engaging premise as a skeleton but the body is so grotesque and misshapen, one loses sight of what's underneath.

Reading these novels and stories, all I can think is, "can it really be this bad?" and often I will find myself flipping back to the cover, to the brief snippet of the skeleton that deceived me into buying the book. Most of the time, I want to forget what I read; to flush the terrible writing from my mind and start again with just the snippet and the hope of something good to come, but it's no use. Some of the worst ones stay with me the longest and then I wonder, "could I have done better?"

Perhaps one of these days I'll do it... one of these days, I'll take the snippet and create my own body on that lovely and engaging skeleton.