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Lost

I chain the last ankle to the table, your legs spread wide, your chest pressed against the cold, finished wood.

You were so peaceful as I bound you, but now, as my hand caresses the curves of your body, you begin to realize your helplessness.

Your breathing grows shallow and fast as the first slap of my hand strikes your ass, not a playful tap, but hard and implacable.

You cry out with each strike, hand. crop, whip. Welts raise, red and crisp.

I reach down and feel your wetness. You are as hungry as I. You listening as I unzip my pants and they fall to the floor.

And cry out as I push my shaft, slow, steady and hard, deep in your tiny ass. There is pleasure. There is pain.

and there is more. A taking, a reminder of just how owned you are as I plunge deep into your forbidden love

emboldened by your cries, I move from love to desire to lust, losing myself in your pain, no less than you too, lose yourself

in surrender

“She would sometimes look at men’s hands… She would think about everything they could do.”

— Alice Munro, Selected Stories (via blue-eyed-medusa)

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Den totala förvirringen innan njutningen tog över!

Men det är bara som jag tror.

Waiting Patiently

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expose provoke arouse