I've been re-reading and revising some of my older writing pieces and came across this one...
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Alone, in the middle of the room, her slender, petite frame is wracked by shivers. Nerves tingle like over tightened violin strings, ready to snap. Toes curl inward and then back, caressing the short nap of the soft rug under her nylon clad feet.
Air floats over the exposed skin, the bare back, arms, breasts. Nipples tighten, pushing forward the silver rings threaded through them.
She flexes her fingers, letting the tips skim over her thighs, feeling the goosebumps above the lace band of the thigh high stockings. Her breath comes in short impatient gasps, keeping pace with the racing heart. The wait is taxing, all she wants is to stop thinking and start feeling. Finger flex again, hands ball into fists, short nails press into palms, leaving deep grooves. Quick bursts of pain rushing through, but it's not the same as pain delivered through Him.
Footsteps on the hardwood floor, the creaking is disorienting. He could be on the stairs across the room or right behind her, just off the rug's edge. She shivers again and swallows, tasting the tang of excitement commingled with fear.
"Close your eyes." She tenses for a moment and then exhales, He's right behind her. Eyes drift shut, accompanied by a deep breath. The relief is so close she can almost taste it.
The smooth cotton of His shirt caresses her back for a moment as His hands fit the blindfold over her eyes. The cool fabric settles over her trembling eyelids, offering protection for the tentative gaze hidden inside. another swallow, another taste of fear and arousal and now impatience. What does impatience taste like? She runs her tongue over her parched lips, catching the bottom lip between her teeth, biting down gently. She can't see Him, can't feel Him, her entire being is concentrating on her remaining senses.
The warmth of His breath invades the shell of her ear, the soft whisper of instructions melting her insides.
"Turn to your right and walk forward. Slowly."
Complying, she feels the ground under her feet change from rug to hardwood floor. One step, two, three...
"Stop." This time the voice is harsher, coming from far away, freezing her in place. "Arms up in front of you, palms forward."
The coolness of the painted wall greets the overheated palms, a welcome balm to the grooves from her nails. She lets the momentum carry her forward, folding her arms, forearms joining the hands, letting the wall absorb the heat, inhaling the crisp cleanness of the paintwork. Forehead bows to the hard surface, pleading for a place to rest.
His fingers tangle in her short curls, sending the blood rushing to her scalp. Head pulled back from the wall, only her palms touching it now, just as He intended. His voice is seductively soft as He asks,
"Did I say you could lean against it?"
"No, Milord..." her reply is scarcely a whisper, floating gently between them, barely audible but unmistakeable in its penitence.
His hand withdraws and for an endless moment she is wondering if He walked away. Or, even worse, if He is standing there watching her. Ears pick up the trace of His even breathing a scant moment before His mouth settles on the base of her neck, nipping, licking, drawing the tender flesh between His teeth, before releasing it and leaving her alone again. She whimpers softly, the brief burst of pleasure already receding, but the scorching need inside burning brighter.
Silence again... She knows that He delights in the torment of anticipation, in teaching her patience, a lesson she finds the hardest to learn. Past scenes, conversations, shared fantasies are floating through her mind; has she guessed what He intends to to? A breathless pause and then the blessed relief of knowledge. The soft hiss of the whip presages the strands kissing the exposed skin. Hot streaks of pain accompanied by a soft moan of pain and contentment.
The wait is over and so it begins...
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Air floats over the exposed skin, the bare back, arms, breasts. Nipples tighten, pushing forward the silver rings threaded through them.
She flexes her fingers, letting the tips skim over her thighs, feeling the goosebumps above the lace band of the thigh high stockings. Her breath comes in short impatient gasps, keeping pace with the racing heart. The wait is taxing, all she wants is to stop thinking and start feeling. Finger flex again, hands ball into fists, short nails press into palms, leaving deep grooves. Quick bursts of pain rushing through, but it's not the same as pain delivered through Him.
Footsteps on the hardwood floor, the creaking is disorienting. He could be on the stairs across the room or right behind her, just off the rug's edge. She shivers again and swallows, tasting the tang of excitement commingled with fear.
"Close your eyes." She tenses for a moment and then exhales, He's right behind her. Eyes drift shut, accompanied by a deep breath. The relief is so close she can almost taste it.
The smooth cotton of His shirt caresses her back for a moment as His hands fit the blindfold over her eyes. The cool fabric settles over her trembling eyelids, offering protection for the tentative gaze hidden inside. another swallow, another taste of fear and arousal and now impatience. What does impatience taste like? She runs her tongue over her parched lips, catching the bottom lip between her teeth, biting down gently. She can't see Him, can't feel Him, her entire being is concentrating on her remaining senses.
The warmth of His breath invades the shell of her ear, the soft whisper of instructions melting her insides.
"Turn to your right and walk forward. Slowly."
Complying, she feels the ground under her feet change from rug to hardwood floor. One step, two, three...
"Stop." This time the voice is harsher, coming from far away, freezing her in place. "Arms up in front of you, palms forward."
The coolness of the painted wall greets the overheated palms, a welcome balm to the grooves from her nails. She lets the momentum carry her forward, folding her arms, forearms joining the hands, letting the wall absorb the heat, inhaling the crisp cleanness of the paintwork. Forehead bows to the hard surface, pleading for a place to rest.
His fingers tangle in her short curls, sending the blood rushing to her scalp. Head pulled back from the wall, only her palms touching it now, just as He intended. His voice is seductively soft as He asks,
"Did I say you could lean against it?"
"No, Milord..." her reply is scarcely a whisper, floating gently between them, barely audible but unmistakeable in its penitence.
His hand withdraws and for an endless moment she is wondering if He walked away. Or, even worse, if He is standing there watching her. Ears pick up the trace of His even breathing a scant moment before His mouth settles on the base of her neck, nipping, licking, drawing the tender flesh between His teeth, before releasing it and leaving her alone again. She whimpers softly, the brief burst of pleasure already receding, but the scorching need inside burning brighter.
Silence again... She knows that He delights in the torment of anticipation, in teaching her patience, a lesson she finds the hardest to learn. Past scenes, conversations, shared fantasies are floating through her mind; has she guessed what He intends to to? A breathless pause and then the blessed relief of knowledge. The soft hiss of the whip presages the strands kissing the exposed skin. Hot streaks of pain accompanied by a soft moan of pain and contentment.
The wait is over and so it begins...
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