One of my big hands holding your wrists together.
A pause while I whip the belt out of your belt loops, then: weave the leather around your wrists and tighten. It isn’t hard. You don’t struggle. You want this, you want to be bound, you want the freedom that comes with restriction.
There is nothing for you to do but be right where you are.
There is nothing for me to do but be right where I am, one hand gently holding the belt against the wall, one hand touching. Softly. Trailing my fingers. Exploring. Slow.
Not cruel. Not yet.
You look at me with pleading eyes. Your lips are bright, your eyes are soft from that place of surrender. You want me to kiss you, and I want to deny you what you want, so I don’t. You want me to fill the ache that comes rushing in when I take everything else away.
I want to devour your attention.
I hold the back of your head, thumb your neck. I feel your jawbone move as you swallow. My mouth waters and I want to suck you deep. I slide my fingers over your lips, press your cheek to the wall.
This is the moment. More than the pounding wrath of my lust or my greed, this soft part where you are open and trusting and I’m just about to fall down the crevasse where permission meets skill and I lose myself, but find someone I’d much rather be. This is the moment I meet you anew and we remind each other who we are.
But I long to kiss you every minute that I don’t, so I spit at you instead, mark you, claim you. You wince but you want all parts of me that touch you.
I want all parts of you.
Give me the small soft ones, the solid ones, the ones that will never break, the ones that have never been anything but broken. They aren’t mine but I’ll put each to bed, to pillows and furs and spice rose tea and white flannel sheets and the moon, and you can tend to them when you’re ready. On the good days, I put mine to bed, too.
I get lost in the desire stalking me like a lion when I get this close and restrain myself, hoping to follow my own plan. I get lost when I have to be out in the world making meaning, making due, making sense. So I keep coming here, to us, to this, where I do make sense, where I am not the monster inside. Where you meet the monster inside and bow in reverence, and ask, and ask, and ask.
I unclip the flogger from my hip and feel the weight of the baton like a friend, like my shaft, hard in my hand. The falls like a gown made for me and worn at all my transformative life events. I swing it once, twice. The heat roars up and shakes something under my heart loose and starts to crumble.
Before you take my first blows, I lean in. Lips touching not kissing: you are so good. Beautiful, beautiful. Thank you.