Undoing the cinches of her attire, slipping the black skirt down her thighs, she lowers to her knees, hiding her nudity behind the bench, waiting for her Sir’s slave to direct her. At a motion, she hesitantly rises, steps toward the room and quickly turns her back, facing the red-padded black cross so she does not behold the visage of those who can gaze upon her body. Twisting her loose blonde ringlets into a knot, she places her hands on the bar and takes a horse’s stance, one leg slack and slightly bent, the other supporting her weight. Thoughts flow like water through her mind, filling every crevice, flooding every valley, until she drowns. She attempts to beat all those thoughts into submission, trying to force them into nonexistence. She fails.
Stillness. She seeks stillness. In heart. In mind. In soul.
Resting her forehead on the intersection of the cross’s beams, quietness falls. Stillness has not yet been achieved, though she knows, in her soul, it will come sometime tonight. A fist grabs her knotted hair, twists her head, and pulls until her neck arches, open, waiting; her pulse trills as the scarf wraps around her eyes, blocking all visual sensation. Breath deepening, attempting an even stance she settles onto her feet. Without warning, he embeds the tawse across her bum, beating all attempts at breathing or standing still from her mind. She reacts only by rising up onto her tiptoes; more strikes land, and, as she can go no higher, she starts to bounce from one foot to the other, like a ballerina, or a child in a state of terrified anticipation.
Unaware of how long she has gripped the bar on the cross, she lives for only one thing: the feel of his tools with each strike, each slash, each slap. Once, in misplaced fear, though she doesn’t release the bar, she slides off the side of the cross to escape. His voice, harsh with dominance, breaks the silence in the dungeon and commands her to Get back up there. Her feet immediately move to the center of the cross; his ensuing application of the flogger forces her to accept who really dominates whom. Her mind blurs, and stillness, unknowingly, begins its descent.
Time blurs; it has no meaning; it does not exist. She simply knows the cross; the strength of wood, the softness of the red leather, the clink of metal chains. She understands nothing, for no thoughts belong to her any longer. Mere moments stretch into the abyss; endless periods become finite flashes. In one instance, hands smooth across her back, down her sides, and up to barely caress the sides of her breasts. A silent whimper, begging escape, forms in her throat; the thought required to express this moan, however, eludes her.
Whispering, “Turn around,” the slave has her obeying before her mind can comprehend the order. The slave, placing her hands on the bar, steps away. Left standing in a room possibly filled with people looking at her fills her with dread; she witnessed her Sir flogging his slave across the breasts, and abdomen, and thighs just moments ago. The two thoughts collide in a brain that suddenly screams at her to hide, to flee, to fight back. She moves to the side, wanting to release the bar, wanting to crouch down and hide; secretly wanting more of this uncertainty, this indistinctness because it takes all decisions and puts them into the hands of others. Soothing hands move up her raised arms, tempering the rising panic, replacing it with calmness, with acceptance. The soft hands, and the soft scent that accompanies them, leave her—she stands quietly, no longer trying to hide, but still wishing she could.
Larger hands, with an accompanying unfamiliar scent cause her to breathe deeply, pulling his scent into her olfactory memory. At just that moment, at the depth of her breath, his hands lift her right breast; if her eyes were not tied shut, they would have flown open in surprise, in confusion. Quickly, though, the feeling of alarm passes, replaced by one of quiet submission. Gently, this new Sir lifts her breasts and runs rope around and around, over her neck, between and under her breasts. Her clouded brain cannot follow the pattern. Soon all attempts are abandoned when he trails his feather-light touch from base to nipple, up over and around her neck, down her arms, again and again, repeating the same pattern until her nipples stand out like large pink pebbles on a white sands beach.
Obviously satisfied, he changes tactics and rubs roughened leather gloves over and over her chest and breasts, constantly returning to her nipples, tweaking them, flicking them, teasing them, torturing them. She leans forward to follow his hands as he pulls away, silently begging for more. Her mouth falls open, air fills her lungs in short, sharp, silent gasps. Just as she realizes he will not return and she braces for release, the finest, most delicate filigree of metal—almost like metallic extensions of his natural nails, only even more insubstantial—pick up the tracings. Over and around her breasts, down to the tips of her nipples, down her stomach, across the top of her mons veneris. She shudders, arching her back, raising herself up for a silent offering. Up her sides, over her outstretched arms, down the sides of her back, across her buttocks, and down the backs of her thighs. Breath stutters in her breast, catching on every stroke of his hands, every flick of his fingers. He returns to her nipples, and proceeds to pick them apart with his wicked toys, imprinting his impression upon every bump, every dip, forcing her to accept his silent demands as her own stillness.
Just as she places her metaphysical foot upon the summit and can go no higher, he tweaks both nipples, wringing a gasp from her lips, dropping her like a feather to drift, to drift back to the beginning, to drift back to the base of existence. Pinches, symmetrically placed on nipples and flesh od by the ropes tightened around her breasts, force a harsh wind under her feather-like mind, pushing her past the peak and propelling her into the clouds. Though it moves forward at an alarming speed, once more time ceases to pass. Caught in the sensation of merely breathing, merely feeling, merely accepting, she loses connection with parts of her insubstantial body. Placing his palm on her sternum, he pushes her against the cross; gripping her left nipple between the knuckle of his bent forefinger and the pad of his thumb, he pulls, extending her breast through the air, allowing its own weight to pull down, adding to the pain, adding to the pleasure. His hand keeps her in place, in her place, while his fingers pull her, twist her, command her to where he wants.
Lost in the darkened clouds, completely sightless and unseeing of the surrounding stars by which to navigate, she knows she needs water, knows her hands merely grip the bar because it anchors her to the ground above which she floats. But she knows she does not want any of it to end. Listing to the left, she hangs, waiting, suspended, all thought, all movement, all strength, all will postponed. During another immobile measure of time—individually and separately, yet all simultaneously, her legs give out, her arms straighten, her fingers barely retain their grip on the bar before she collapses at his feet.
Hands.
Voices.
Laughter.
Sweetness, and bitterness, and wetness.
Flying.
Floating.
Falling.
Strength. Not her own.
Incomprehensible.
Blindfold removed, but daring not to venture into the light yet, she unsteadily climbs to her feet, walking under the supporting arms of her Sir and his slave, wishing the entire way across the dungeon that she could curl up on the floor right there. Material smooths under her fingers, firm flesh slides against her back. She opens her eyes to see his slave leaning over her, pinching her, twisting her, opening her up. She opens herself up for inspection, and hopes that more will ensue. She nips at his slave’s chin, wishing she could express her desire to please, praying her nonverbal submission enough to please. She crosses the threshold; she cares not who surrounds them, who sees, who participates, who does not.
Passed amongst them for their pleasure, for their desires, for their whims, she submits, she accepts, she stills.
Post-script
“Is that the first time you’ve ever had anybody go down on you?” the slave asked, kneeling beside the submissive, holding the strawberry and chocolate. Her Master and the Dominant look at each other, smile, and start chuckling. The slave glances between the Dominant and her Master. Her face flames scarlet from embarrassment. “Oh, god, I didn’t mean it that way.” She starts laughing with them.
“You’re never gonna live that one down, Dobbie,” her Master rumbles. Laughter slides easily between the three, and the submissive slowly begins to descend from her time in the clouds.
