by Belinda Carroll

I feel you arch beneath me.

Watching your face, that face although seen often, is enough to astound me as you exhale.
I tell you to make no move, no noise or this game will stop.

I have the pattern down now, the sharp intake of breath , as it hits you, the pause as you
compose yourself.

I know what you are feeling right now, the heat of it and the chill as your body reacts to this
foreign substance, which few others were willing to try.

This is not new to me, many times I have felt as if nothing is. I study the look on your face
right now, the seriousness starkly contrasting the jovial demeanor you usually sport, and
that is new and something that I know I will long for as soon as you're gone.

I feel the gooseflesh as I run my hand down your side, feeling the bone rising on  your hips
and the soft flesh of your back where the welts are just beginning to rise. Knowing that
when we speak of this later it will be clothed in humor, but right now I have you and we are
both serious as sin.

I move closer to you , scrutinizing, wondering how much you can take. I aggressively
squeeze your thigh, scratching nails as I travel to you. Your face registers some surprise as
you feel my hand reach you, the light caress of fingertip moving easily over your wetness.
As I slowly circle your clit, you feel it hit.

I am completely aware that you are aching for me inside of you and every fiber of you ,
focused on the thought, is reeling, I keep circling, sustaining the madding pace.

I remove my hand, your face etched with dismay, and you hear the tell-tale clink of metal,
and hear my breath as the room goes dark, and you cannot open your eyes.

The cold is shocking in comparison to the warmth, as the metal binds you and the cloth so
innocuous before, blinds you. Heat sears through you.

Being pushed to the edge is something new for you and you struggle to keep control, not
beg, not to move away from the sensation. I, also, am trying to keep control, waiting to fuck
you, fervently hoping that you will beg, so I may maintain some modicum of the illusion that I
am the Dom. You are blissfully unaware of the struggle.

You are now moaning. Although I had told you to sustain silence or I would stop, I fail my
promise, as all pretenses are abandoned eventually.

I delve into your wetness. One finger then easily two.I push you further, knowing that you
want more, need more. I deftly reach over and open the box lying at my side, selecting only
the best of my collection. You gasp audibly as the silicone penetrates you, filling you. It
comes as a shock to your system and I watch the immediate, sharp rise and fall of your hips
as they strain to meet me.

As I ride the wave of you washing over me like an ocean, I request you to come. Although I
do not want this to end, I need to feel you, the energy of your release, and the culmination
of this.

Screaming, you come. Your head thrown back, trembling, I watch your body. Struggling
against the ties, I know you want to touch me, look at me. I press further into you wishing
that I could bury myself in you.

I crawl up to hold you, to release your eyes, let you free. Opening your eyes, you look at
me, sanctity and lust emanating from you, purifying me. We grin, and we both know that this
is only the beginning.
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