Notes: This story contains explicit BDSM. And it's the first
BDSM I've ever written, so please be gentle G
Big HUGS to Nia, who gave me all the confidence I needed to
finally post this.
You're breathtaking like this.
Beautiful, on your knees, begging.
Begging me.
You don't have to. You could ask; you could just plain
look at me and I would give you everything I have.
Happily.
But you wouldn't want it that way.
No.
You wait until it almost rips you apart, and when you can't
stand it anymore, you come to me and beg. And that does rip you
apart. Every time.
I would give in after a second, I could never deny you anything
- but you don't want me to. I have to deny you, for a certain
while, or it's not right, either.
So I do.
I try to let my eyes become hard, I try to look coldly when you
beg and sob, I try to overlook that, when you're like this,
you're not sure of me.
It's time now, because I can't stand it any longer.
"On the bed." I tell you, and you obey after kissing my boots.
You lie down, and I admire your body as long as I'm allowed to,
as long as you're still heaving from exhaustion.
"Touch yourself." I say quietly when you're breathing easier
again.
I'm towering over you now and I can see your hands clench to
fists for a moment. You hate this. You hate touching yourself
in front of others, most of all in front of me. So you comply.
I love watching you.
I'm not allowed to let the warmth I feel spread into my eyes,
however.
You look at me, anxious to please, while you start to stroke
your chest and find your nipples. You pinch them slightly, your
eyes half-closed as you observe me constantly.
You're irresistible like this, and I know my hard breathing
lets you know exactly how much I want you.
Your hands trail down to your cock, your lips part, and the
sounds you make are impossible to ignore.
I have to remain impassive, though, but I'm achingly hard, just
like you. You're stroking yourself lightly, fluttering
caresses. Stroking in earnest is out of the question, because
you're not allowed to come. Not for a very long time.
"Stop." My voice is hoarse from wanting you.
You obey instantly, and I can't repress the shiver that runs
through me. It's an amazing feeling to have you here, like
this, reacting to my very word. Sends me on a power trip every
time.
"Undress me."
You are off of the bed in seconds, your fingers already
fumbling to remove my tunic. Each patch of my skin is caressed
shyly, almost reverently. You worship me.
I don't want you to stop.
I close my eyes, and I could almost imagine everything was
normal.
That you're doing this because you need me, not because you
need the pain.
I can't say I haven't tried. But you didn't even let me tell
you how I was feeling about you, no, you made it very clear
that there were other ways you could get what you wanted.
Other people you could get it from.
I still ache when I think of the blood, the scars. And you know
I would not let that happen to you again. Not ever.
So, I don't really have a choice.
Each time, I promise myself that this time will be the last -
but it never is.
And the problem isn't your pain. As long as I control the dose,
I make sure you don't get hurt too much. Just enough to send
you flying.
I love it, in fact.
No, the worst is your emotional pain. I can't say the sight of
you, kneeling naked on the floor when I'm coming home, doesn't
drive me crazy. Takes my breath away. I know I shouldn't, but
I'm waiting for these days.
Dread and anticipation, so close to each other.
But to see how it hurts you to beg for something I would give
you whenever you liked, to see you fleeing directly afterwards,
to hear you crying yourself to sleep, to notice you cannot look
me in the eyes for days - it burns my heart.
You don't have to be ashamed.
I am, because I'm taking advantage of you and enjoying it.
Like now.
My clothing is gone, and you are on your knees again.
"Stand up." I wait until you've risen gracefully, just as
graceful as all your moves are.
I trail a finger down your cheek. "You have been good. You may
use your mouth."
Fire.
Liquid, searing fire down my throat, trailing burning marks to
my nipples, staying there, sucking softly, and I swear I'll go
insane.
Soon.
Feels so good, my hand in your hair, holding you tight, making
you suck hard before you move on to where I want your mouth
now.
There.
Just there.
A delicious sound of triumph from your throat as I can't help
letting out a helpless groan, and I know, I know I have to end
this soon.
Soon.
But not yet.
Not just yet.
Finally I have to shove you away roughly, and your wounded look
hurts me as much as I have hurt you. Apologizing would be
unacceptable.
"Stand between the bedposts."
You know how I want you there, and you move quickly, knowing
exactly where the restraints are. I fasten them on you, and
your back shivers with anticipation. I smooth the goosebumps
away with one hand.
"Cane or whip?" I ask quietly, and I hear your breath catch a
little.
"The whip. Please, Master."
I know you hear my breath catch now. I still can't get over you
calling me "Master". Here. Like this.
Ecstasy bubbles up inside me, pride, pride that I own you,
competing with the guilt that I'm craving this so much. I have
to tell you, although I shouldn't.
"You're mine." I whisper roughly, my hands running down your
flanks.
"Yes, Master." You whisper back, shaking again.
The "for now" remains unspoken.
I knew I shouldn't have said it.
It still gives me a rush.
You're mine, even if only for a little time, and that's all
I've ever wanted. I have your body; your heart and soul remain
hidden. I guess I'll have to work on that. Hard.
I kiss your neck and go to fetch the whip. You brought it with
you, the first time you asked me. The first time I let you
force me.
I finger the whip and think about how it will touch you soon.
How it will touch you on the in- and outside, more than I ever
will.
At least it's me who makes it touch you.
This time.
I lay my hand flat upon your back to let you know it will start
now.
"Ready?"
"Yes, Master."
I weigh the whip in my hand before I strike you for the first
time. I like to build up the strokes gradually, but I find
myself doing it faster and faster each time.
I want to hear you scream.
And you do.
Beautiful and loud with each stroke, and you and I could both
come just from this, it wouldn't take much more.
Just a few more strokes, a little harder, your screams a little
louder - but I can't lose it like this. I would make you bleed,
leave scars, I would hate myself even more, and I couldn't
stand that.
I couldn't hurt you like that.
So I have to be careful to hold on to this thin thread of
control while I'm panting and fighting not to touch myself.
Fighting with all I have, because this isn't enough for you,
not enough for both of us.
I have to stop, and I do.
You're sagged forward, only held up by the restraints. We're
both bathed in sweat, and I can only guess how terrible it must
hurt in your wounds.
I'd like to wash you. Later. But even then, you won't let me.
I loose the restraints and savor the moment you are pressed
against me, but I rather position you on the bed before you
flinch away from me.
You kneel in front of me on all fours, a sight forever burnt
into my memory. I could explode right here and now, and I feel
the taste of my blood from biting my lip as I prepare myself
for you. That's one argument, maybe the only one you didn't
win.
You're not silent anymore, no, you're gasping, moaning,
sobbing, all at once; and your wail as I sink inside you nearly
drives me over the edge.
Hot.
You're hot, and tight, you're soft and clinging around me, and,
as always, you fight me every part of the way. I think, I
guess, I hope you feel the same overwhelming pleasure as
I do. My force-tendrils shatter at the walls you have built up
around you, yet I have to try, every time. Just once, because
soon, soon I won't care anymore. Soon, I will try to lose
myself in you, although you're not cooperating.
I have always had a vivid imagination.
You're driving me insane, you feel far too good for me to hold
on, far too good, and I can't anymore. Have to take you hard
now, have to bruise your hips, have to let it all go. I feel
you, I hear you, trashing against me, sweat running down your
back.
One arm under you, hauling you up against my chest. "Now," I
whisper into your ear, my hand around your hardness, your
scream in my ear.
And I'm there.
There.
Over.
I run my hands over your damp skin, my cheek pressed against
yours for one last moment before I loose my embrace, and as
always you're out of the bed and the room as fast as you can.
I'm left cold.
Aching.
Wondering what to do, what to say to make you stay the next
time.
Wondering, if I went after you, would you let me heal you?
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