The gift



That simple word is as effective as any leash. Eyes closed, I raise my face instinctively to you. Your tone is soft now and its sounds are the only clues I have until I feel the chain fall away from my collar and your hands lightly on my shoulders, stroking, rubbing, reaching down, your black nails gently scratching my chest and pinching my nipples.

“Pray for me”

This is our code for my position. Still kneeling, shins flat on the floor, I fold myself over until my shoulders touch the ground and my face is forced to one side, ear pressed to the worn, damp and dismal carpet of this Victorian bathroom. You stand behind and inch my feet apart with yours so they sit wider than my shoulders, your hands resting on the small of my spine. What feels like the soft belt from your bathrobe is now tying my hands together behind me.

Now a gentle, rhythmic smack on the raised drum of my ass, then a finger slips between the cheeks to press upon my most vulnerable entry. The swelling between my legs when you bend to press one thigh between mine, its pair outside of my left hip, as you grind yourself into me. You are levering on top of me as though shielding me, and your left hand wraps the back of my neck, pressing me down into the floor. Four fingers slip inside the collar, it creaks as you twist and pull, compressing my throat and gripping like a wrangler with a bucking mule. I’m taken over with the weight of you, my breathing struggles, becomes shallow, I bend and open myself to you.

Slicked silicon, angled for my prostate, pushes at my perineum – a purr from you and it is in, inching up to press home a finger’s length inside.  I gasp but I am subdued by the pressure of pleasure that fills me as you switch on the vibration.

The whole of my pelvis feels its hypnosis, like a fuzzy hand holding me spellbound. You manoeuvre the length around inside me, pressing, teasing and firing bolts of pure dopamine through me as my mind shuts down all systems not focused on this overwhelming centre of sensuality. Soon there are no senses, as the throbbing takes over, binding my body with a magnificent shiver of abandonment.

The fullness in my belly paralyses my normal responses, my face pressed harder into the musty floor by the heel of your hand and your short breaths are now audible above the noise of the probe in my guts. I want to tell you of the joy I feel, the privilege of my submission. But I can’t. I need a new language to express this modality.

It feels like I am spilling over a cliff but swimming not falling. The floor feels undulating and untethered. The harder you hold me, the freer I feel. I am giddy from this gift you have given me – it is a lightning rod connecting me through your hand to the earth.

Your hand that now reaches down to touch my tumescence, stroking and stretching like a snake sloughing off its skin. You are gripping me at both ends of my body, stretching, choking, pulling harder, pressing down and rubbing yourself hungrily against my wavering body. I’m a liquid mess of pulsing desire, crushed between your insistent flesh and a ragged floor, a fissured dam due to burst.

The pipes rattle and the whole bathroom shudders through my body, as the boiler fires into life. And I pour out onto the carpet, my wheezing cry mouthing your name like a shibboleth. Mine is a carcass abandoned to a conqueror, an offering of appeasement.

Your wand has gone, you stand up to release the heated water in the taps that feeds the tub. I’m touching the side of my face, feeling the skin worn rough from the rug, silently sobbing as the collar at last fully opens my airway. I feel as a seasick mariner washed ashore, gratefully wallowing in the shallows of the surf, whose life feels truer for so nearly having lost it.


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