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In every drop of rain I feel her on my skin
Each cold gust, shivers through
And the taste of salt and pheromones
Pushes against my consciousness
Shifting wind driven walls of water beat staccato rhythms against my roof
Half reverie half dream
I feel her heat pressing over, onto
The ecstasy of her mind
Spilling and bleeding from one dream to reality
Heavy tumescence making clear connection
No distance no factor
Her spirit makes love to mine
Whole, I awake, not empty
But full of longing
One more minute
This time let us look into each other
Never to part
You are mine
I hear that tiny sound of giggle that only comes from Tara’s throat when she’s both happy and nervous. It sounds like hesitant bells. Like fear wrapped in brightness. I wish I could get up and go to our wounded bird, our limping fox girl.
I hear her light steps move into the bedroom. I hear Pel’s heart cave as he sees us together. That palpable tension of fear and frission. Of a Masters next steps, dissipates.
The sounds of whispers sounds like offers phrased as instruction. What comes next a mystery, but as much as the fear of the unknown grips my heart. The fear of what might be, I think I’m safe. I flashback to another night that I was given and…but no. This is not that.
The soft fur caresses my calf. Trailing comfort and warmth up my body.
The sound of a murmur that is just audible reaches me.
“And this, Mr. Fox is the leg of our Sara. It is soft but firm. She can wrap it around and also leap up with them. After her shower, her legs taste like cinnamon….it’s probably her soap, but I like to think it’s just her.”
The soft fur cups my ass, squeezing and pulling apart cheeks. Exposing the one spot of warm on the back of my body to the coolness of the room.
“Do you see this Mr. Fox? This is Sara’s butt. Pel likes to put things in it to make Sara squeal but she doesn’t have a tail….. YES. I have a tail, I am a good fox girl. My master tells me so.”
The fur works its way up my back, trailing the lines of the scars and scar work. Whip lines and the raven. The marks of this life and Pel’s claims.
Hair trails across my face, and I soft breathes warm against my lips.
Whispered, “And this, Mr. Fox, is my Sara. She’s sometimes my mistress but mostly my lover and friend. She’s mine, Mr. Fox. And you can’t have her.
But now you’ll always long for the touch of her body. Aren’t I nice!”
It’s impossible to laugh tied face down like this but oh, how I want to. It escapes like a a hiccup and is swallowed by the devouring lips of Tara. Making her claim. Our little fox girl. She’s growing up.
When I proposed this day of play to Sara, I posed it as stretching of pleasure and boundaries. We have taken our play to extremes before so I knew that this proposal would be one she was interested in.
But, when I said it would be an exploration of sensuality, I could see the disappointment hiding in her smile. Sensual play has always been my foreplay and her aftercare. So to her it wasn’t the high she was looking for.
In times past we’d gone fairly deeply down the roads of pain. Whips with leather covered ball bearings is a favorite of hers. Blade play, including cutting is more my comfort level. Even taking it so far as to create a scar through scarification on the canvas of her milky skin.
I’ve gone fairly close to the edge of life and death with her. Even going so far that we would keep a medical team in the wings in case we needed them to pull her back from over that edge.
We’ve employed some psychological components but nothing in the fear area. Nothing that delved deeply into those zones. So today, I wanted to try that.
I started by taking away her physical liberty. Something comfortable that I’ve done before. Then escalated to removing her sight and her speech with blindfolds and gags. Again, something we’ve done, though with less frequency.
Then I isolated her. No talking, no certainty of presence. Sounds of movement, of leather on hardwood. But allowing the time to stretch out. Until, at last the tension was broken by sensation. But not welcome sensation. Using a Wartenberg pinwheel with carefully removed spokes, I took her down the road of bugs crawling on her. It is an unpleasantness we’ve talked about that I know unnerves her. And once I had her truly frightened, I reminded her of my presence but in the darkness of the room and the harshness of my voice pitch low and the brevity of the exposure to sight, I knew that her mind would start to manufacture and question.
Then electricity play, hard and harsh. Pain like she’s never known, throwing her out of comfort and into panic. (Administered by a friend of ours, one we’ve played with before. I don’t feel comfortable with my ability in this area yet, so I am observing.)
When he called her a slut, I knew it hit home. She flinched as if struck and thrashed. And the scent of her fear filled the room.
This is the edge we will ride in this scene. Abject fear, coupled with pain and pleasure and the unknown.
We’ve been together for a long while. You have to try new things to keep it fresh.
If it weren’t for the sound of creaking leather, I would think that I was alone. Pel hasn’t talked for almost 10 minutes but I can hear him by the toy chest or in the closets. I know that this is all a ploy to keep me guessing as to what what he’s doing, what comes next…
I smell incense burning. Apples and sandalwood drift through the room. The scent enticing and distracting. Pulling me into memories of the last time I smelled this. Years ago on our honeymoon, after an intense session of flogging. Laying with my head on his lap, smelling his unsaited arousal. Knowing that we only rested before something new.
I breath it in then feel a hot burn connect and pool then go cold and pull my skin taught.
Again, it spills across my skin, the burn and surprise pushing me, tumbling into float. It burns its way across my taut flesh until cooling into runnels.
The pain comes. The heat right on the edge of burning. Then cooling and hardening. Some, distant part of me says, wax. “He’s using wax,” but that logic is soft words said from horizons away.
I anticipate the next pour and when it comes I shudder as the pain tips me further. Closer and closer to orgasm. The wax running, still warm against the softness of my damp cunt. I whimper around the gag, as much of a beg I can muster. My thoughts shattered across the feelings of the flame made physical.
So close to tipping over the edge…
The sharp, harsh snap screams me awake. The electric sharpness and the small lightning pounds through nerve endings. No longer floating, I scream against the gag as electricity pours through me, for eternity…for moments.
He loosens my gag. The wet plop comes free, teeth no longer clentched, but the memory of the actinic fire coursing through my nerves…fades into shame…
His words, soft against my ear, almost bring tears. The extent of my failure made known and complete.
The soft growl breathes out, “Did I give you permission to cum, slut?”
The word slut rocks through me, so tame. But it rocks me back. Like I’ve been smacked with a baseball bat. Pel never calls me things other than his Morrigan or his Darkest Night.
I listen closely, hoping to hear more words, as the gag is replaced with a fresh cloth. Then I’m biting into the fabric hard again. The electricity snapping into my skin, right on the verge of damage…
“Who is this?” the fear gibbers in my brain, is it Pel…it was his voice…wasn’t it?
The touch of your skin is a translation of affection expressed through the medium of nerve endings
Endeavoring to awaken in you a fire which cannot be quenched
To know with a glance
Sure hands over soft skin
Eager lips made slow
Pressing lips like vise over artery
Tasting jumping pulse
Struggling to gasp breathe to synapse
Breathe deeply in ragged flame
Kindled deep in bones
Leather and pulse pain
Bruises marking mine
I would have you in all the ways of imagining
Of experience and of desire
Not once, not twice
Until yield and sleep
Join in grip of heart
Allow me to wake your fire
Consume me as I consume you
Taking nothing for granted
Allow passion to rewrite your stars
It’s a thin fiction that I can’t hear the snap of the belt through the bathroom door but I know Pel needs that. He is trying to keep me safe and I appreciate the sentiment, but I’m better now. I was lost in subspace and had a bad flashback. I wish he’d stop acting like I’m about to break.
The hot water pounds against my shoulders, easing tensions I didn’t know I was carrying. Soaping up and sluicing off quickly, still I stand in the heat and spray. The air grows thick and hard to breathe. And almost, it feels easier to keep going and allow the wet and heat to drown me in the air. It’s not that I want to die or that I’m not happy. It’s that sometimes the pain of remembering is so heavy. I know that I need to get out and get going. But I just can’t.
The sounds in the shower change. The pressure in the room lightens and the air cools. I hear from the doorway, “Tara? Are you ok?”
Pel’s sweet voice fills me with shame and rage and just for a split second resentment.
I turn off the water jets, feeling a sullen bleakness settle down, and step out.
He’s waiting with a big towel. Arms stretched wide to envelope me. And shame overwrites the bleakness. Seeing him, trying to take care of me. I step into his arms and he rubs me down with the towel. Hands soft and firm. Businesslike and still I feel them linger over me. Never where you’d think. On my calves, down my side, along my spine. All dry.
The wet warmth vanishes and I stumble briefly, I’d leaned too far into him. But just as quick, warm robes encircle me. His arms pull me close. I feel his heart beat, that steady thump, for me. For me.
My body leaned back against his. His mouth against my ear. He whispers, “It’s time to get ready my Tara dove. Your clothes are laid out in the guest bedroom. Please get dressed in there.”
The guest bedroom? Why there?
Am I being punished…
Despair drifts back in, unbidden, as if through an open window
“Sara is taking up the whole bed, I’m afraid and we can’t have your dress getting dirty.”
I feel like I just slumped in relief…
Maybe he’s not completely wrong. It’s hard to admit. That I’m not just ok. It’s hard but I know…He does whatever he can to make me safe which is sometimes exhausting for me. But he’s not wrong either. I’m a grown ass woman and it’s hard to be taken care of like I’m not.
“Tara,” he asks quietly.
I shake out of a reverie that I guess dragged on and say, “Ok,” as brightly as I can. I brush past Pel and see Sara is splayed out on the bed. Wrists and ankles bound to the four corners. The bed top has been replaced by a white shiny leather one. A blindfold and ball-gag covers her eyes and mouth. I briefly feel something like lust and jealousy all rolled together. But I go to the guest room and find the outfit picked out for me.
Its peach! From the lace underwear and bra all the way to the two knives I’ll conceal on me, peach.
Where did he get blades that are peach colored?
Want that slow sensual burn
To crawl inside your mind
Run my skin over your thoughts
Feel your needs and desires
Granting each in turn
Denying each at my whim
There is no rush
Not looking for the sharp pulse of orgasm
Burn me alive in the feel of your skin
Talk to me about telomeres as I taste your sweat
Quench my control and lead me into frenzy
Speak of rhythm and rhyme
Make music in body, in soul
Dance to melody
As silk cut from your shoulders
Floats twisting to the bedroom floor
Each turn building until
We are made whole
Take hand in mine
Ungainly until Unfettered
Move hips and roll body
Looking for yours
In the spaces between us
Locking in place like snapped puzzle pieces
Eyes drinking in
And the beat
And the beat
And the beat
Heat slips into veins
Heart beating in time with the trickle pulse
Of desulatory wind
Welcome arms as old lovers
Embrace to catch the sun
Light shivers and moans
Bare skin burn
Thrust hopeful into embrace of day
Foreknowledge speaks the coming night
Tears break ranks
Falling to the thirsty earth
Moon and stars rise
High waters drown the light
Bereft of touch