A Mutual Feeling

It's nice to feel nothing, to feel stripped clean. To feel the singing sting of the whip clearing away the sadness and the shame and even the pain as it meets with the flesh. That pain you carry inside yourself is heavy and dull and cloying but the kind that he inflicts is precise and strong and sharp. It is neat, possessed of an elegant security that is deliciously reassuring. It is astringent and stings like alcohol in a wound; warms like it, too, right in your belly, right down to your fucking bones. It means the only thing that exists right now is that good kind of pain and the dark behind your eyes and the love he has for you that is so certain it boils over into tender, considered violence, the seemingly endless crack of the whip. He stops and you gasp, like a drawing man, desperate to cling onto the comfort of sensation. Behind you, he exhales in that way he does when he's thinking and you wonder what thoughts are flickering through his mind. You wonder if he's as hard and wet and desperate as you are and, as if reading your mind, he steps forward and answers your question, his cock pressing with comforting firmness into your thigh through the fabric of his suit.

"Sweetness," his breath comes like the gentle tide against your neck, like breeze across a stone. You melt a little more because you're always easy when he does that: when he mixes pleasure and pain and tenderness and that pretty cruelty he's so very good at. The kiss that lands on your shoulder grows teeth; he pushes them into your flesh for a moment, a little too hard and then gives you succour with a soft caress over the back, his hand blooming over your hip. Reaching forward he skates precariously close to the warmth between your thighs and away, upwards to curl those wide, warm hands around your hardening nipples. His touch is so electric that it is almost too much, nearly hurts with how achingly good it is. He knows this, knows how long it has been since you have been touched by another person in this way and uses it against you. "You're a whore for this, aren't you?"

You would reply but you can't because presence of the gag in your mouth makes you painfully aware of the absence of his kisses. The blindfold a reminder of his smiling face. Naturally, the bonds and blindfold are finely woven fabric as stylish as he is. The scarf that binds your wrists you know well; he was wearing it the night you met, when he was so warm and charming. You thought it made him look dashing, maybe even faintly rakish and now you know he is not just a rake but a libertine, too. A man for whom pleasure and pain are a full time job and that you are happier than you would like to admit to be in his employ.

There's soon more footsteps and you don't know what he's doing or where he is. Your ears are listening, reaching, trying to locate him but he's taking his time, standing back so the sounds are distant and uncertain, muffled every so often by his walking over the wide Persian rug that is set in the centre of the room. There is a bed above it and, to the right of it, are the crumpled remains of the cheap clothes you showed up in. In the silence you think again of him undressing you, telling you that you're far too good to wear such bad clothes and then you must let him pick you something else out next time. You know it's wrong, that to let him do that would just be another way of handing yourself over to him but you can't help yourself. He's got such an excellent eye anyway, that how could you resist? But you will, you're sure of it. You can't let him take you like this, not so easily. You're distracted again, blinking in the light this time by his gentle face as he pulls off the blindfold.

"You seemed distracted, darling, is everything okay?"

Even the way he checks in on you like that, all sugar sweet and tender mouthed, his tone coaxing and soft makes you stupid for him. That makes you angry at yourself and you blush. Wordlessly, he reaches back and between a single finger and thumb he pulls away the gag. You notice how well manicured his hands are, if he spends more time in the salon than you do. Probably.

Even though the gag is off you can't talk, you're still a little overwhelmed because you're an idiot but you manage a nod and a cough because your mouth is dry. Watching you try to get your breath, he walks to the corner of the room, one eye on you, and pours a glass of water. As usual, he's always attentive, always thoughtful. Raising the cup to your lips, he encourages you to drink with kind words and soothing coos. His tenderness makes you a little wetter, a little harder and a little softer all at once. You wonder if he knows how good he is at this, wonder who the other men and women who came before you were and if you are better or worse than they are. It doesn't really matter because right now he is looking at you like he is in love with you alone, like you are the only thing in the universe that matters. You have always wondered what it would be like to be looked at like that and now he is doing it you know that there's nothing else you want in the world. This is enough; to be the centre of his universe. He is your food and light and water and strength and you trust him implicitly not to destroy the credence you have given over. Now, you know he won't. You don't know how but you do. You learn what it feels like to be adored. His kisses begin on your mouth and he goes slowly, working downward until he is kneeling before you, penitent, and presses his lips to your feet. As though asking for forgiveness for such keen desire, looking up at you to apologise for such passion from a man who should be stoic. It didn't take long to crack the surface and he's just as warm and passionate as you hoped. He's more, better, because he's human with it. Leaking with need that mirrors your own.

"Thank you," his breath is warm like a pool of sunlight and though it's dark in the windows your mind is pure heat, warmth streaming and leaping through every nerve in your body. His mouth works upwards again, peppering your skin with little sighs, better kisses, his mouth pressed against your skin until he reaches that soft muskiness between your thighs. He's easing them apart now, that warm, pink tongue pushing into the fleshy folds, finding the nub, working expertly against it. He draws a moan from you as fingers join the tongue, pushing upward, relentless, curling forward to work deftly at that sweet spot within you. Your right leg over his left shoulder, his hands against your hips. His mouth, your cunt. His need, you, needier.

A litany of curse words follow and laughter vibrates your insides. His eyes rise upwards, hungrier now, on the scent of you like a ravening wolf. "Untie me." The command is clear, you realise you've found your voice. He does as requested and even though you promised yourself you wouldn't, your arms snap downward like a trap, pushing him and his clever mouth back between your thighs. Language vanishes and that feral, animal instinct overtakes you. It's more urgent now, limbs that were once restrained making up for their inactivity with quick action, your fingers pulling that expensive suiting towards the bed, spreading your legs, your mouth ordering his to work harder, power always shifting between you.

He seems to like it, seems hungrier now he's got your scent on his fingers and the taste of you in the back of his throat and on his lips and smeared across his cheeks. You're all greed now, humming with the thrill of bringing a powerful man down. It's a game you never tire of, seems like he won't either as you pull away layer after layer of cloth away with the bravado. Now you feel everything; you're full of power, expunged of that weight of shame. Full of lusty joy. He goes down easy, happily, if his laughter is anything to go by. He's on his back, face turned up, his eyes searching your features for some clue as to what happens next now that he no longer has the playbook. His expression is expectant, so much so that you wonder whether it is he that is gripped with yearning rather than yourself. You do not know who is feeding off of whom. At last, you lean down and kiss him, his mouth meeting against your own. What a find; that men like him need like you. It's not clear who was coveting who more, you twist that fact over in your mind like a rare, beautiful coin. In truth, it doesn't matter; you are his and he is yours and power, like need, ebbs and flows between you like land and water, like the very rhythm of nature.