The whip grips the folds of my flesh as it unfolds with a sting in the tail. I grip the folds of sheets, pulling harder, my hands apart, above my head, legs spread and lashed to the bedstead. Again. I count. Softer now, barely audible, until she’ll choke the word louder from my throat.
And I bury myself into the covers, my hips trying to hide from the next stroke.
I run my tongue over cracked lips. And the air is suddenly cool on my sodden face, smeared with tears, spit and sweat, as she tugs back my head with a handful of hair. Her own blood-red cupid’s bow at my ear, softly: “I. Can’t. Hear. You.”
I can feel the welt rising at the top of the back of my leg, every time it touches the curve of my ass there’s an electric shock. I flinch. I swear. I can feel my face falling. I can’t do this.
Then I’m alive to her. An adrenaline shot like whisky surges through me, before she can move I howl “FIVE. FIVE FIVE FIVE”. My shoulders now braced, hips cocked like a breech-loading gun, the feelings flowing to my fingers. I. Am. Alive.
I don’t bow, I don’t bend – my flesh will mend, the bones will yield but not break. When the blow lands I feel you filling me, my swelling self tumescent with the urgency of your own need to strike, whip and punish me. The heat of my wounds rising in your own cunt, weeping, pink, freshly flushed flesh.
And I’m riding this, moving with the motion of our connected selves. I tingle, overcome with the sensory overload that’s too much for my mind to process. The colour of the walls, every sound deafening – the clock, the street, the creaking stretch of a leather basque.
And by seven there is only the noise of the wind in my ears. A rush as the wider world collapses into us. The bed, this room, nothing else. My pounding heart rattling my ribs, seeming to force out the nubs of my nipples.
I break. I subside into the ties binding me to this bed. Once again that shrouded fog of submission, like laudanum smothering my resistance. I’m held fast, stretched and fully given to you. Bruises mark the scraped skin in orderly rows, as lines written in punishment.
And I’m yours. And you’re mine.