extremystique

I kneel, hands bound behind my back, knees parted, sex dripping and exposed, a blindfold over my eyes. I can feel the pine needles biting into the soft flesh of my knees. I breathe in deeply and the pine scent awakens my senses. In my mind, I can see the reflection on the wall as the brightly colored lights twinkle and dance on the branches of the tree behind me.

I can hear him in the next room, taking his time, planning what he will do when he returns. He knows that the anticipation drives me mad. He knows that the thought of what is to come is making me drip with need. It seems an eternity before I hear the door open and close as he enters the room.

I feel my pulse quicken and my heart beating loudly in my ears. I feel the wetness pooling behind the swollen lips of my sex, waiting for his touch to release it. I hear him approach and I start to breathe more quickly. The sound of his footsteps makes me crazy with need.

I can feel him standing over me. I can feel the weight of his gaze as he takes in my form. I feel my body react to his proximity and I want to beg him to touch me. I wait, patiently, listening for a movement, waiting for that touch. When it comes, my body reacts as if it has been struck by an electric current.

His fingers slide down my cheek and over my lips. I part them slightly, wanting to taste his flesh, wanting to tease him with my mouth; with promises of pleasure. His thumb slides between my lips and I run my tongue over his flesh. I close my lips over the appendage and suck it greedily. The moan of pleasure that I am rewarded with makes me smile. I suck harder, running my tongue over his flesh, sliding my lips over his thumb, dampening it with my saliva.

He extracts his thumb and I pout. I want more, so much more. When I hear the metallic clinks of his belt buckle I smile again. This is what I want; his hardness sliding into my mouth. I open my mouth wider yet and stick out my tongue. He chuckles softly, the sound becoming a moan as I feel him sliding over my tongue. I lap greedily at his flesh and lean forward on my knees to take him deeper. The feel of his hand on my braid makes me moan softly, the sound vibrating against his flesh as he pushes into my throat. I barely have time to enjoy the sensation before he pulls back again. With another thrust he presses forward and then pulls back quickly. I realize that he is not teasing me, that he has every intention of using my mouth until he is satisfied. I concentrate on the task at hand; licking, sucking, swirling my tongue over him, wanting to please him.

It isn’t long before I feel his final thrust. It is accompanied by a moan of pleasure. I feel him throbbing in my mouth and begin to milk him. I feel a few steady pulses and then taste his release as his pleasure flows over my tongue. I swallow, never stopping my movements, licking at his flesh to be sure to collect every last drop. When he releases my braid and pulls away, I lick my lips and lean back, taking my place once again. My body trembles with need and I feel my wetness on my thighs. I wait patiently, knowing that the morning has only just begun. e~

“Kiss me, Catherine”.

Just three little words. A simple directive. An instruction. A task that makes my mouth water, my breath catch, and my mind stutter. It truly is amazing how something so simple can have such a strong effect.

Chocolate melts on my tongue; sweet, rich, dark, arousing. I imagine his mouth on mine, his tongue capturing that rich treasure and teasing me with it. My mind becomes a sea of fog and my senses react to the taste of the sweet, the taste of his mouth, the feel of his breath.

I wonder now if a day goes by when I don’t wish to hear those words, wish to feel the sensation of melting sugar on my tongue, and wish to feel his mouth on mine. The association grows stronger every day, even in his absence.

I lie in bed, thinking of an afternoon not so long ago when I lay on cool white sheets as he placed his kisses on my flesh and teased me as they melted from the heat of my body. And when I began to squirm, when my moans began to drown out the sound of the air conditioner as it fought against the summer heat, he collected the softened treats and fed them to me.

How easily I was overwhelmed by his actions. How quickly I was overwhelmed by the taste of such richness as was served from his mouth to mine. And how quickly I begged for more as the sugar rushed through my body and gave me new strength with which to serve him.

What I wouldn’t do to hear those words in my ear once more. What I wouldn’t give to taste that sweetness on his tongue… ~e

When poets such as Frost and Walden wrote of their walks in the wood, I doubt that our morning together is what they had in mind. They describe beauty in nature, beauty in silence, and beauty in the life that fills the limbs of tall trees and scurries along the wooded paths. For my own part, beauty also lies in the touch of your hand on my flesh, the sound of your voice in my ear, and the feel of the hard earth against the soft flesh of my knees. That these things take place in a quiet wood merely adds to that beauty for me.

My body is flushed from exertion as we climb higher and higher yet. My muscles burn hotter with each mile. But it is my mind on which the greatest toll is taken. It is my imagination that is fueled by the anticipation of what our destination holds. Each rest stop brings forth a flurry of touches and words that seem far from relaxing and do little to put me at rest. My body screams and my nerves dance as you tease me with what is yet to come.

The moment when we reach our destination seems almost anti-climactic upon initial observation; a small clearing in the trees with a felled tree or two and granite boulders planted deep within their mossy beds. But the words you whisper when my eyes behold this quiet place make my body come to life and my imagination soar. Those two words, simple and brief, set my skin ablaze and awaken my desires anew. Those two words, whispered in my ear as your hand clasps my throat, those simple syllables; “we’re here”, cause a sensation within me that I fear cannot be quelled.

I soon feel your hands on my flesh, your mouth devouring mine, your body pressing against me, and my energy rises incrementally. Within moments, my body is bare and I feel the sensation of rough bark digging into my soft flesh. The ropes that bind my wrists are pulled higher and higher, stretching my sore limbs. Those that encircle my ankles become taut, stretching and spreading me until I am captive both physically and emotionally. And then silence.

My senses are magnified in those moments. I hear nothing and everything at once; the rustle of the wind in the leaves, the hum of the distant highway, and the songs of birds that dwell high above me. My breaths bring the smell of moss and earth and my own sweat. I taste the salt of my own body as I lick my dry lips. My eyes, downcast as they are, take in little more than my own flesh, the spot of earth on which I stand, and the debris that nature leaves in such places that are seldom touched by man.

My body suddenly stills and my sensed are sharpened as a new sound grabs me and brings me into the present moment with a shuddering halt; the air is sliced in a soft whoosh that ends in a thud against the flesh of my back. The sound breaks into a million pieces that dance over my body and give rise to a moan that flows from deep within my lungs and is carried forward on a sharp exhalation of breath. Bird’s wings flutter as the creatures are startled into flight. The silence of the nature that surrounds me is suddenly fraught with the sounds of movement and the hum of electricity that fills the air and crackles against my flesh. In that one moment the calm of our small clearing is overtaken by first one motion and then another as you take me to a place of chaos and pain that has a calm all its own.

The Frosts and the Waldens of the world beheld a beauty in nature that can be had by any who choose to travel the paths of which they speak. But there is another beauty that may only be had when that silence is broken and the calm and tranquility of the wood is shattered by the sating of deeper desires. I take to the wood. I choose the path less traveled. I find solace and beauty in a way that brings me a peace that I will feel for days to come. And when it is over, when I am released to curl up in my mossy bed, I am sated in a way that brings about a poetry that has a rhythm all its own. ~e

I pulled into the parking lot and turned off my car. I could almost hear my pulse beating as I was enveloped in silence. It was quiet, considering I was in a hotel parking lot, less than a quarter of a mile from the interstate. I scanned the room numbers on the doors as I got out of the vehicle, catching the attention of an employee on the balcony above. I made my way to the nearest stairway. As I turned the corner I was hit with a blast of hot air and the sound of loud voices. I looked up to see a laundry room, the employees inside toiling away in the heat. They glanced up and I turned away to avoid their gazes. I immediately wondered what they must think; a woman in heels and black stockings, sans luggage, making her way to some illicit rendezvous. The thought made me smile.

I topped the stairs and rounded the corner, my heels clacking on the concrete walkway. I squeezed between a maid’s cart and the wall, nearly running into the employee as she exited the room. I wondered briefly what she must be thinking. My destination was the next door. It was cracked, and I pushed it open. The room was dark after the brightness of the day. I closed the door behind me, shutting out the light, turned, and set my keys down on the nearest piece of furniture. I looked up as he exited the bathroom, and my pulse raced a bit more.

He closed the distance between us and kissed me. I could already feel my legs beginning to tremble. When he told me to kneel, the trembling increased. I lowered myself to my knees, distracted for a moment by the feel of the hard floor against my flesh. But when his mouth took mine, I forgot everything else. I could measure his level of arousal by his kisses. I could always tell how great his need was by how hard he kissed me.

When he told me to hold out my hands, I expected him to place my cuffs on my wrists. I felt my own arousal increasing at the thought. I was caught off guard when he turned my palms up and moved my hands together. I waited, wondering what he had planned for me. I watched his hand as he reached into his pocket. When he pulled his hand out again, the black leather collar that he held made my breath catch. I felt a little giddy, a little surprised, and very, very aroused. When he lay it over my palms, my fingers immediately closed over the leather like a greedy little girl clasping a new toy, fearful that it would be taken away. He pulled my fingers gently open and I stared at the strip of black, the D ring catching the light, mesmerized by the look and feel of it.

My mind went quiet. All I could think about was how much I wanted him to place the collar around my neck. I remembered his words, “not my collar, but a collar”. It dampened my spirits for a split second before I reminded myself that it didn’t matter. All that mattered was that he had gotten it especially for me. And that thought struck me like a tidal wave. Beneath the wave of arousal was an undercurrent of emotion that took my breath away.

The undercurrent was like a riptide in that moment; dragging me down and leaving me with a feeling of exhilaration tinged with fear. I had almost forgotten what that experience felt like. I had almost forgotten how it gripped like a vice and squeezed out every ounce of air, leaving me voiceless, breathless, and with no choice but to let it overcome me. And somewhere in that breathless moment I heard his voice and I responded. And when the leather touched the delicate flesh of my throat I forgot everything else and gave in to the feelings that caused my body to shake uncontrollably. e~

I kneel on the floor, the carpet digging into my flesh. My hands are clasped behind me, each hand grasping the opposite arm just below the elbow, as opposed to one grasping one another. After all, as he told me when we met, if I clasp my hands together lower than that, he can’t get to my ass to play with it.

The thought of that night still makes me moist.

I close my eyes and listen to him moving about me, collecting the items that he needs. I feel him tug at my arm and I raise it enough so that the rope can slide over my hand and onto my wrist. He tightens the loop and my heart begins to beat faster. He releases my arm and I raise the other. He finishes attaching the rope to my second arm and I fold it with the other, the loose ends of the rope dangling, tickling the backs of my calves, teasing me with the promise that they will soon be lashed to something solid.

His breath in my ear catches me off guard. He says nothing for a long moment, his closeness enough to raise my pulse rate.

“Are you wet, Catherine?”

The words elicit a shiver that runs the length of my spine.

“Yes, Sir.”

My voice is shaky, soft, more a moan than a pattern of speech.

He backs away, leaving me alone to wait. I hear rustling and I wonder what is coming next. The anticipation makes my head spin, my palms sweat, my body tremble. He returns, and I feel the rope touch my foot. I raise it up and he slides the loop over my foot, tightening it around my ankle. My mind races, expectations make my sex throb with need. The thought of being bound, legs spread wide, makes me hungry. He repeats his movements, tightening another rope about my other ankle.

He grabs my braid and pulls my head back. The flat of his tongue slides over my throat and I moan softly. He tugs on my braid again, this time pulling me upward, leading me.

“Stand up, Catherine.”

I rise up to my feet, my legs barely able to hold me they are shaking so.

“Spread your legs.”

I spread my legs, sliding my feet apart across the carpeted floor.

“Wider.”

Another step outward and I am slightly off balance. I think he likes me that way. His fingers slip into my sex and I do my best to hold still, to resist the urge to grind against him. He slides his fingers in and out of me; slowly at first and then faster. He knows exactly what I need. He knows exactly what will make me desperate. I wait for the words and they greet me as my legs begin to shake.

“Do you want to cum for me, Catherine?”

We both know that the question must be answered, but that it is purely rhetorical. He will make me cum for him. He will make me gush for him. And when I do, he will feed me my release and it will make me hungry for more.

“Yes please, Sir. Your greedy little slut needs to cum for you.”

And so the evening begins. e~

Every touch left me feeling more aroused than the last.

My desperation was palpable, visceral, and beyond measure. I have never felt so absolutely sexualized. Every inch of my flesh welcomed his touch and made me crave more. Every breath was a desperate attempt to take in more life such that I might give it to him. Every sound that I made felt like a plea for release. Every moan, every whimper, and every stuttered word seemed only to fuel my need that much more.

Every measure of pain left me wanting an ounce of pleasure to balance the sensations. I begged for release with my body, my disposition, and my words. My need leaked from me and slid slowly down my thigh.

His denial left me weak, yet strengthened my need. I could feel the pressure building so fully within me that I knew that when I finally found release, it would be so much more than I had ever experienced before. When it finally arrived, it was enough to shake me physically and mentally. And when it arrived, he captured my release and fed it to me. Rather than sating me, his feeding my release to me served only to heighten my hunger.

I have replayed every moment over and over again. I feel his eyes on me in the bar and I feel the need growing within me. I hear the sound of his voice and I feel my breaths coming faster. I feel his mouth on mine for the first time, after he made me wait so long for it, and I wonder how I can ever live without that sensation again. I see him looking down at me as I take him into my mouth and I can taste him once again. I feel his hand on my sex and I am paralyzed and breathless. I feel him enter me and I am reduced to a wet and shuddering mess. I smell the scent of him and I cannot get enough of it to satisfy my senses. I feel his hands in my hair and my legs instinctively spread in invitation. e~

            I can hear the rain on the bay window behind me. I can hear the hum of the air conditioner as it kicks in. It does nothing for me. My body is flushed. I feel a single drop of perspiration slide slowly down my back. I squeeze my shoulder blades to hasten its journey, the movement pressing my breasts forward. I roll my shoulders and flex the muscles in my arms for relief. The rope pulls at the skin on my forearms as I do so. I take in a deep breath and slowly release it; the shuddering sound, a symptom of my arousal.
            I can hear him; his breathing slow and steady, the creak of the chair as he shifts his weight. I can feel his eyes as his gaze travels over my body. The sensation heightens my arousal. I square my shoulders and straighten my back. I wait, quietly, uncomfortably, feeling every muscle in my body ready to spring at his command. I take in another breath, deep, steady, the air filled with the scent of his cologne. My response is pavlovian; my imagination playing the reel of our past meetings, my body trembling slightly with excitement, my flesh tingling as the blood rushes and my adrenaline spikes.
            The chair creaks. My breath catches. I hear his slow, steady footsteps coming closer and closer. My pulse begins to race. My heart beats a quick, heavy cadence, the sound loud in my ears. I blink, my eyelashes fluttering against the fabric that covers my eyes. My lips part as I breathe a little faster, my body suddenly desperate for oxygen. My muscles become taut as I correct my posture. My need for his approval steeling me against my fatigue.
            The feel of his hand on my hair elicits a soft purr. The touch has been so long in coming that I have almost forgotten how good it feels. As his hand slips through my hair I lean into his touch. As it comes to rest on the nape of my neck I feel a sense of peace. I feel him next to me, the air shifting slightly as he bends over me. The touch of his hand on my face is sudden, his grip on my jaw, firm. His warm breath touches my lips and I feel my breath catch. His mouth takes mine. He is not gentle. He is hungry, demanding, harsh. I feed that hunger with my own and I feel his hand move slowly downward. Every inch of my body from my chin to my sex is caressed, his gentle touch contradicting his kiss.
            The hand at the nape of my neck pushes me forward firmly. I lean, my knees spreading slightly, my shoulders leading my decent to the floor. He grasps my hair to balance my weight. I turn my head, my cheek and shoulders meeting the cool floor at the same time. It is a relief for the heat of my bare flesh. My hips rise up, drawn by his touch as he traces my spine. A shiver runs down my body as my anticipation grows.
            I feel the air shift again. I hear the sound of his shoe, scraping against the floor as he stands. The next moments take an eternity to pass. My pulse spikes again as I hear the metallic clatter of his belt buckle. The sound of leather sliding over fabric is loud enough to deafen me, but I know that it is only so in my mind. My breaths quicken. My body stiffens. My sex pulses. My mind races. And in his single, swift motion, I am lost. e~

My fingers splay outward, nails finding purchase in the soft wood. The soft sounds of steel gently remind me that I am vulnerable, bound, held in place by the restraints that he has so lovingly applied. They are not necessary, but they comfort me.
The blindfold is snug, but not tight. I can see cracks of light at its edges. I could escape the blindness. I could take back my sight with a violent shake of my head, but I will not. I embrace the blindness instead.
I shiver from the cool air that wafts over my body. I will not have to suffer it long. Soon enough, my body will be hot, flushed, desperate, and I will be shivering for entirely new reasons.
The sudden, sharp crack breaks the silence before I feel its root, and I am startled back into the moment. The leather leaves just enough of a sensation in its wake that I can trace it as it travels through my nerve endings. Those nerves end in places that are soon firm, plumped, sodden, and aching.
I remember to count, and my voice is strong and clear in the quiet room. I know that with each strike, that clarity will melt and I will begin to digress; counting off strikes in moans, barely able to think, let alone form words.
I rise up onto the balls of my feet, buttocks pressing back as if I could request where the next strike might fall. I am not disappointed. A new ripple of pain and pleasure runs through my body and I follow it to its lovely ends, mourning its passage even as the next takes me.
The moments pass, each driving me deeper into my mind, further into a place where pleasure takes its toll in ways that cannot be described. I begin to lose time, lose the sense of my surroundings, lose any sensation of what I can touch, smell, taste. But I never lose count.
And when the numbers become a series of moans, each one melting into the next, I feel his hand on my back, the cool of his flesh tempering the heat of mine. And when my body trembles uncontrollably, I hear his soft sigh of pleasure and I know that I have done well. And that thought is one that eases the pain, heightens the pleasure, and leaves me with a sense of contentment that few things in this world can equal. e~

The rope is drawn slowly around my wrists. I feel a bit of my soul start to ebb away; leeching through my skin and escaping on each successive exhalation. I wonder, not for the first time, how it can feel so exquisite to lose a part of my self.
His fingertips slide up my arms, gently gliding over my flesh like the touch of a silk scarf. I shiver,  the movement starting at the nape of my neck and radiating outward. I hear him chuckle and the sound is delicious. I know that he is pleased; with me, with himself.
My arms are pulled tightly inward, my elbows moving closer and closer together from the force of the rope as it is snugged. My back arches and my breasts are thrust out before me as if in offering. I feel a little more of my self ebbing away. And because nature abhors a vacuum, I feel that emptiness filling with him; his need, his desire, his wanting.
The change is as subtle as the moment when evening becomes night. And just as that shift brings darkness, this moment brings with it the beautiful shift from my being my own, to my being his. My heart becomes lighter. My soul becomes freer. My mind becomes clearer. My body becomes weightless.
His fingers slide through my long tresses and the weight of his hand urges my head back gently. His fingertip follows the line from my chin, along my exposed throat, to my chest. Every inch that it travels is a mile of heaven in my mind. How I crave that touch. How it sets my mind ablaze with desires that only he can tame.
He releases my hair and his hand glides along my spine, higher and higher until it rests upon the back of my neck. My knees weaken instinctively and I gently succumb to gravity as I lower myself gracefully to my knees.
My mind is already dancing ahead, knowing what the next few moments will entail. I shudder with the pleasure of anticipation; my pulse racing, my flesh tingling, my heart pounding in my ears. Adrenaline races through my veins and I do my best to maintain my composure. Need grows within me like a vine, crawling just beneath my flesh, its roots tugging at my sex.
I wait, my body still, in spite of the cacophony that is taking it over. I hold my breath as I listen for the two words that will release me from the stillness that I fight so diligently to maintain. And in the next moment, they arrive, dripping from his lips like wine.
“Please me.”             e~

"Squint your eyes and look closer
I'm not between you and your ambition
I am a poster girl with no poster
I am 32 flavors and then some

Squint your eyes and look closer
I'm not between you and your ambition
I am a poster girl with no poster
I am 32 flavors and then some

And I'm beyond your peripheral vision
So you might want to turn your head

'Cause someday you're going to get hungry
And eat all of the words that you just said

I am what I am
I am 32 flavors and then some

God help you if you are an ugly girl
Course too pretty is also your doom
'Cause everyone harbors a secret hatred
For the prettiest girl in the room

God help you if you are a phoenix
And you dare to rise up from ash
A thousand eyes will smolder with jealousy while
You are just flying past

I am what I am
I am 32 flavors and then some
I'm taking my chances as they come

I am 32 flavors and then some
I'm nobody but I am someone, someone

I'd never try to give my life meaning
By demeaning you
And I would like to state for the record
I did everything that I could do

I am beyond your peripheral vision
So you might want to turn your head
'Cause someday you're going to be starving
And eating all the words that you just said
That you said

I am what I am, I am what I am
I am 32 flavors and then some
I'm taking my chances as they come

I am 32 flavors and then some
I'm looking for truth and there is none

I am 32 flavors and then some
I'll never forget where I came from

I am 32 flavors and then some
I'm nobody but I am someone

I am 32 flavors and then some
I'm taking my chances as they come

I am 32 flavors and then some
Looking for truth and there is none"

32 Flavors - Alana Davis

I lie on the bed, waiting, patient, my body trembling with anticipation. The blindfold offers but a glimpse of light at its edges, teasing me with the promise of sight. I am alone in the room, waiting. I could remove it. But that would be a loss. It comforts me. I am not lost in my sightless world, contrarily, I am found.

I listen as the sounds of the world outside the windows give evidence of the passing of time; birds sing to one another, traffic noises in the distance measure time in a rhythmic dance that could lull me into a peaceful sleep under different circumstances. I only care for one noise and the excitement that it brings with it.

The door opens and closes. My pulse races. My heart becomes a faulty metronome, losing time and then gaining it as the pace starts and stops. A chill sweeps over my skin as he nears. My fingers dig into the softness of the bedspread beneath me. And suddenly, I can’t breath.

The first touch is accompanied by the scent of raw leather; sweet, tempting, delicious. It drags teasingly over my flesh and my body moves with it for fear of losing that sensuous touch.

The second touch is colder and harder, accompanied by a metallic clink and the noisy jingling of chain links.

The third touch is rough and scratches my flesh lightly as it drags over me. The scent is subtle, one that is only recognized by those quite familiar with it for having been restrained by it’s biting lengths.

The last touch is honey; sweet and oozing, as it warms the flesh just beneath my ear as he speaks.

“I don’t need any of them, do I?”

I need not respond with more than the movements of my body; my arms raise, sliding over the bed as I clasp my hands behind my neck, my legs part, my feet slipping comfortably to each corner of the bed in invitation. e~

            A river of sensations courses through my body. I wonder how a single touch can make such an impression. I wonder how my mind can multiply that touch into a million tiny earthquakes that shake me to the core. I wonder how something so seemingly innocent can have such repercussions. I wonder how I can feel such devastating loss when that touch is denied me. 

            I sigh as his finger slides down my cheek, a silken touch that seems to caress my entire body. Every tremor leaves behind a new level of wanting, of need, of desire. How can anyone survive this sort of desperation? Like a sunflower reaching toward the light, my body leans into that touch. I crave it. It is the emotional sustenance that brings me peace. It is the physical torment that makes me mad with need. It is...everything. 

            That touch continues the path from my cheek to my throat; light, steady, subtle. My head rises instinctively as access is demanded and access is granted in a wordless exchange. My long, slender throat extends toward his reach and my shoulders roll gracefully back as I plead silently with him to continue his journey. 

            An invisible wave rolls through me as my back arches slowly, extending my breasts outward as his touch moves me with neither pressure nor direction. It is but a dance between his touch and my body that responds to a silent orchestra of desire and need. 

            The dance continues as my body arches farther yet; the tops of my feet flattening to the floor as my weight becomes precariously balanced by a single point that is his touch. My center of gravity follows that touch as my body gently rolls back. My calves tighten, my thighs flex, and my knees part as my weight shifts. 

            My breaths begin to quicken, my chest rising and falling, each breath taken in and captured in a split-second of hesitation, anticipation, hope, need, and wanting as his finger trails slowly across my stomach. My lips are sealed, but my body screams out in a silent plea. 

            The agony of the pace of that touch is beautifully excruciating. I want to beg him to move quickly. I want to beg him to slow. I am torn between the need for release and the need to enjoy this sensation for as long as I possibly can. 

            My legs drift farther apart as my shoulder blades reach the floor. My taut flesh screams for attention. My muscles tremble with tension. My pleasure waits like a horse at the gates; panting, anxious, ready for release. 

            As the touch finally reaches its destination, the half sigh, half moan that shudders from my lips carries across the quiet room like a blast of December air. I draw in a breath and hold it, not daring to move for fear that I will break the tenuous connection that lies between us. As that touch, now warmer and slightly damp, begins it’s slow, agonizing journey up and over my flesh, I nearly cry out in frustration. The torment begins anew, and I pray that it will never end. e~

"For my own part, I have never had a thought which I could not set down in words with even more distinctness than that with which I conceived it. There is, however, a class of fancies of exquisite delicacy which are not thoughts, and to which as yet I have found it absolutely impossible to adapt to language. These fancies arise in the soul, alas how rarely. Only at epochs of most intense tranquility, when the bodily and mental health are in perfection. And at those weird points of time, where the confines of the waking world blend with the world of dreams. And so I captured this fancy, where all that we see, or seem, is but a dream within a dream."

A Dream Within a Dream – Alan Parsons (Adapted from Poe’s Marginalia)
Album Tales of Mystery and Imagination

The room is quiet, serene, and peaceful. Or perhaps it is my mind that is so. Perhaps there are noises that do not filter through my haze when I am here. Perhaps the only sound that can invade this space is his voice. My knees dig into the hard wood, yet I feel no pain from it. My feet, flattened beneath the weight of my body as I rest my buttocks on them, should be cramping terribly. They are not. My shoulders, pressed back so tightly as I clasp my hands at the small of my back, should be fatigued. They feel weightless instead. My neck should be sore and stiff as I lower my head, eyes on that particular spot on the floor just a foot in front of my knees. It is relaxed.

I don’t know how long I have been here. Time is a lost concept for me. There is nothing that could draw me from my reverie but his voice…and his touch…firm on the back of my neck, letting me know that I am his. And the feel of my body coming to life as though his touch has electrified me anew. The feeling of being able to breathe more deeply, feel more strongly, sense more keenly. The feel of the warmth of his touch as it flows from his flesh into mine, warming me…nay…heating me.  A slow, sensual drip of sensation as he slides his fingers oh so slowly into my hair and my body is overcome with a shiver so deep that it might be an earthquake in the serenity of my surroundings.

And as he pulls my head back, allowing me the pleasure of looking into his eyes, the sharpest, coldest intake of breath, as though it were possible to breath in his pleasure, takes me and gives everything in my periphery a color more vivid than it has ever been before. And to look into his eyes; bright, intense, pleased, is like looking into a soul that has been shared with mine since a time before that which I can even recall. And his smile of pleasure instills within me a pride that no one can ever take from me. And that pride fuels my desire to please him, to serve him, to exceed every expectation, and to be everything that I can be for him, for his pleasure, for his satisfaction. e~