Away 5

You stare up the steep muddy path with trepidation turning to dread. You can see the hut...tent...cage? high up the side of the valley. It is cold, drizzling rain and you might as well be naked.

You got into the car fully clothed, but I have been stopping now and again--have been taking your clothes away from you for the last 2 hours. Now, as we stand in the wet November twilight and consider the view, all you have left is a thin white satin vest and your lace thong. Everything else is locked in a box in the boot. I have not said anything to you about it, only stopped and variously taken your jacket, shoes, jumper, trousers socks and hat and locked them away. You are certain you won't see them again for some time.

You were freezing in the car on the way down. As you stand at the base of the steep green hill now with the rain soaking through, you find yourself shivering violently.

I put my arm around you, let your hair down and stroke it. I face you away. Grasping your arms together behind you, I bind wrists and elbows tightly, quickly. The rain runs down your face and into your eyes as I turn you back. I take your left breast in my hand. The wet satin sticks. My touch is gentle. I consider you, feel your rapid heart beat under my palm. You lurch, gasp in pain as I tighten my grip, find your left nipple.

Slowly, led by the pain, you are pulled to your knees. You resist; the ground is muddy, studded with gravel. You do not want to kneel there. My grip is iron and I have other bad intentions and need you in proper position while I collect myself. You aren't given to pleading, but warm tears mix with the rain streaking your face as your knees settle on to soft mud and stone.

I leave you in your wallow and go to the back of the car. After a time--after the cold soaks in and you start shivering--you decided to plead. Cold and desolate and bleating. I do not answer. When I return, I am carrying a bag on my back. I stroke your hair. The utter, raw bleakness of your predicament is making the tears come freely now. I stand and consider you for a moment.

-- Come.

With great care, gentleness even, I lift you to your feet. My arms support and shelter you. My lips find your neck at the shoulder and I kiss you, bite you there. You feel my breathing quicken as my mouth comes to your ear.

-- You are beautiful. I need you...but I must hurt you for a while yet.

You collapse into me. You can no longer contain the fear, the anxiety, the longing that has been building since we left London. You start sobbing softly.

-- Please...it is a broken whimper.

You lean all your weight into me, stagger against me. I accept your offering and we start to climb the muddy path.

At the top is the yurt. You struggled on the slippery rocky path, slathered in mud, nearly naked with your bare feet and your arms bound. I was there, though, supporting you. I did not carry you, but I did make your journey bearable.

Unlocking the door, I turn and unexpectedly pick you up. Like a parody of some 50s film, I carry you trembling over the threshold and settle you on the sheepskin beside the unfired wood burner that take up a third of the room. It is cold in the yurt, and a little damp, but it is better than being outside.

-- Rest for a moment.

-- Yes master.

I smile sadly at you for a moment. No! no! no!...oh no! You'd forgotten that I don't like to be called master.

-- Yes s...s...s...sir you quickly stammer out. You are so cold and vulnerable. You love the closeness of being carried, the moments of gentleness in this harsh place and you forget. So afraid you are of having offended me, of having broken the rules, you are trying not to sob. I'm s...s...sorry sir.

I sigh. It's all right. Try to be more careful.

I often forgive you and bring you back on to the right path. I know that hurting you, leaving you sore and gasping and aching is also a kindness. I will not take you beyond your borders, not really. I will, however, relentlessly explore all of your frontier. I already claim some of your secret lands as my own: my Newfoundland, my America.

Raw and wet and cold, you sit on the soft sheepskin and watch as I ready the fire with tinder, firelighters, logs. Your arms are aching now and you wish I would release them. Hoping that I might take pity on you, your eyes follow me around the room as I search for the matches. When I refuse to notice you, to give you my gaze you start to whimper and mewl softly.

-- Quiet. I do not even look up from the drawer I am rummaging.

You stop with a small sigh and sink a little. I find long matches, come to you, place the box by your knees and settle beside you. You look up at me with soreness in your shoulders and an ache in your heart. You try pleading with your eyes again, but I see through this. I grasp you chin sharply and turn your gaze left and down. I take something from my back pocket. I grasp the front of you vest and gather it away from your breasts. In one swift stroke of the knife you have not seen, the vest is gone. Unable to help yourself, you gasp and start trembling again. I stuff the tattered remains in the stove and turn back to you.

Collecting up the matches, I light one and hold it close to your face. As it draws nearer, you feel its heat, hear its hiss and you begin to fear. You try to pull away but I take a handful of your hair and reel you back.

-- Watch.

You look. It is not as close a you feared. But, as you watch, I lower it, letting the burning head brush over your shoulder, your breast. I am quick and it does not hurt, but it frightens you. When it reaches your nipple, I linger just long enough...you yelp. I laugh and, turning, lifting, I throw the match in to the open door of the stove. I now turn away and produce a bag of tealights. As the fire smokes to life, I lay out a dozen, maybe more, of these on top of the stove.

-- No real need to light these. They'll be ready soon enough.

I pause for a moment and light them anyway. It is gloaming and I like to see your naked flesh bathed in firelight. The stove is growing warm, crackling, starting to draw and roar. I stand and come around behind you. My hand on your hair, I lean in and bite your neck again...hard enough to make you gasp. Hard enough this time to draw blood. You squeal and try to pull away, but I hold you in place and growl. The yurt is starting to get warm. I relent, stand and shove you hard. You lose your balance and fall to the floor. Bending to my knees, I gather your hair and lift you back upright.

-- Stand up. I whisper in your ear.

I push my arm through yours and lift you. God that hurts. Your arms have been bound like this for well over an hour now, and making them take your weight is agony. It is going to get worse, though. I fish in the bag and bring out rope. This goes over the supporting beam, is lashed to ties on your wrists and I use it draw your arms rapidly to the beam. Fuck! Next, I kneel beside you and lift your left ankle on to my knee. You stagger and hop about. When you have regained your balance, I slowly stand and lift you in to a split. A lashing tie is ready and slips around you ankle.

The stove is hot now and makes you sweat. Panic grips you suddenly as you realise that I moving to position your exposed, elevated thigh and pussy over the stove and candles. You try to pull away, but your position is so compromised that you are helpless to stop me. I tie the free end of the strap holding your high leg to a beam on the other side of the room. Unable to pull away from the building heat of the stove, of the rising heat of the candles, you feel the terror mount. The only direction you can move is towards the heat. Tears start to stream down your face again.

I lean in close and stroke your torsioned thigh. Be brave I whisper in your ear.

You are not brave. You are a frightened, aching little girl strung out taught, baking after being wet and frozen. The tears come harder. The fire and candleflame are starting to bite already.

-- You must bear this for me. You know that.

I caress your thighs, rubbing stubborn knots out as they form. The heat from the fires hurts, but it helps as well, softens your tired muscles. Hands drift up thighs and suddenly I have your secret self in my grip. This makes everything bearable, perfect even. The thong had dried quickly in the rising heat of the stove. It is soaked again, and not just with your beading sweat. My head, by your shoulder, is irresistible now. Unable to stop yourself you twist in and try to kiss me, to bite me. I smile and pull away, withdraw my hands from your secret places. I leave you dangling and frustrated.

-- Careful, my love. You don't want to touch the stove accidentally.

Fuck fuck FUCK!, you crave a kiss now, crave my hands on you, but all you have is the heat.

-- Please please please...touch me...

Suddenly, the thong draws tight in your crotch. I have gripped it and am tearing it back and up into your pussy and ass. It is unbearably tight. You try to roll forward to take some pressure off, but that just spreads your aching thighs wider and rotates your shoulders in to a strange and awful arc.

This hurts so much that tears streak your face again. You are sweating as well. You notice the sizzling sound as your odd droplet hits the top of the stove. If you were able to look, had your full faculties still, you would see that the sides of the stove are starting to glow faintly, and the tealights are a sea of molten wax. Right now, though, I have you in too much pain to allow you to notice these details. Your left thigh, the one directly over the stove, is sweating and starting to turn red.

All at once, I cut the thong and the agony abates. You recover your posture.

-- Thankyouthankyouthankyouthankyou.

-- You are so gorgeous when you are in pain. I smile and sigh. From behind, my hand finds you exposed lips, works it way up until I am very gently caressing your clit. As the intensity builds, you grunt and pant and find that would offer any price I asked right now, ANYTHING, if you could have me inside you. You need this so much.

-- S..sir, sir, please...

-- Please what?

-- P..please sir, I want to feel you inside me...

You are not aware--are bound too tightly to our task--to realise that I see you in tenderness, and longing. In great respect...awe even that this amazing hurt, hurting creature has given herself willingly to me. Has agreed to cross the desert, alone and in loving despair. I, too, am crying, but you cannot, must not, know this.

-- Not yet. Not yet.

The sun is setting now and you must be patient. For now, you are of the moon and it has yet to rise.

Straining, looking as far over your shoulder as our bondage will bear, you just catch a glimpse of my tears and this tears at your heart. You must reach me, must struggle through all the traps I have set for you. You MUST do it.

-- I...I...I...

But your voice fails you as I look into your eyes. My soft, sad expression wrong foots your resolve and the moment slips. There is more you must endure for me before we can say that, I whisper. I cry. You are crying too, and the pain is so much more intense because I cannot be inside you, because you cannot comfort me except in your pain. You would slip these bonds and offer yourself freely, but you know that I will not do that, not yet. I must take you; we must conspire together to suffer in our own ways.

-- This I know and understand, my love. This I see. These are the words I have taught you to say, to signal me from your brightest places. I am so lost in the darkness and your contrast so bright, that I cannot always see you.

-- We must continue our journey. My hand moves to your dirty, sweating overheated thigh and strikes you once, lightly. Heave and buck and sharp draw of breath as the pain drags you back to your predicament. Before you can recover, I have gingerly lifted a tealight, all glowing liquid fire. I upend its terrible payload down your crisping thigh. You scream. Another, and a louder scream. I seize your hair and pull you back in to me and the next one spills above your vaginal lips, already so hot from being so near the stove. This time you swoon, almost faint. Another follows immediately.

-- My breasts. You just manage to pant out. Please! My breasts instead...You know I will not stop, will not pause now that we are moving again. All you can hope is that you have it in you to endure. Right now, though, you are in heaving panic, uncertain as you bear my blasts. You desperately need them to move to quieter regions.

I pause very briefly, your next torment gingerly pinched 'twixt thumb and finger. The emotional relief, the abatement of your panic, is palpable as I raise it up and pour it over your right nipple. Your pain, however, remains a steadfast constant in the room, alive and insatiable.

Finally, with what seems like hours of white agony behind us, I pour the last over your already wax-encrusted left nipple. You aren't fully here anymore, whimpering, stunned and numb. From somewhere in your depths you sense me release your leg and gentle you foot on to the soft sheepskin, feel me release the awful ligature that part suspends you from the ceiling. I am there fully and catch your collapse, lower you to your knees. I unbind your arms and carefully rub painful circulation back in to each. This unwanted new wave of pain from your arms starts a new round of quite sobbing. I cradle you, whisper my pride in you and tell you it will all be all right. Your head is on my chest, so you cannot see that I, too, am crying again.

I brush the last of the wax away, stand and lifting, carry you to the bed. Again and again I whisper how amazing you are, how beautiful and how lucky I am to have someone that will share this with me. I settle you on the soft bed and you--like liquid hot wax--melt in to its comfortable contours.

Hand behind your head, I lift and touch a cup of cool water to your lips. You are parched, but were so far gone that you had not realised. You drink my offering and smile at me. It hurts so much that I cannot tell you how I feel. Aches that I can only sit and admire you; admire your bravery and fortitude, all you have endured just and only for me...just and only by me.

You are my pain goddess and I am lost. You smile as I offer exotic fruits and sweets to your lips, mango, papaya, passion fruit, dark rich chocolates and small sips of the richest, sweetest white wine you have ever tasted. You are still too exhausted to do much more than lay still and receive these gifts. In receiving them you understand, you see my devotion to you. This is the eye of the storm this evening and together we will enjoy the respite.

Finally, your strength returning, I pour libations of oil over you. The smell of vanilla fills the room as I rub it in to the overheated skin on your belly and thighs. You lift your head and stare at me as I work. Right now, you are not afraid of me at all.

-- Please.

It is my turn to be overwhelmed. I hang my head, but continue to minister to you. My back is to you and there are more tears.

-- Please, sir. Please.

-- Hush child. I have to pause so my voice will not break. Hush. Not now.

You sit up and put your hand on my shoulder. You knew I was crying silently, and now you feel it. You lean into me, breasts in my back, head on my shoulder and it is my turn to sob. I turn and gather you in my arms, kissing you.

-- This hurts too, it hurts so much. Of course. You already know this, it is what drew you here, what has drawn you everywhere we have gone together. We are the broken ones. Here are the criminals, there the crimes. Together, we form a whole, but it likely not a perfect one. It took you a long time to decide to make this journey. Will you reach me some day, or are you cursed to chase forever as I mine your path?

You are crying again, too. You run your fingers through my hair. We kiss.

-- This can't continue, not much longer.

-- It can. It will. I can take it.

-- It will damage one of us, probably both of us, beyond all repair.

-- Hush, child. You smile your silly smile at me. The one that pretends we are normal, that we do not play cat-and-mouse through the torture garden. Why can't I tell you? Why can't I say it? Gods, blast and damn! Release us! You continue: I love it. Sometimes it hurts sooooooo bad, but I love it, I love it that I can give that to you. Anyway, you are being narcissist again: I was already broken when you found me. You didn't do it.

-- I'm not making it better. I love it, too. I love taking it from you, bleeding off the demons, beating them out of you. I hear myself. I'm just such a damned dramatic narcissist aren't I? My silly smile.

-- You're your damned dramatic narcissist. Sometime, you hire me out to help you love you...All part of the charm, though. Hurts like holy hell, though. A sigh, then: I love your dimples.

Now I push you back and lay my head on your breasts. I can hear your heart beat.

-- Take me. Love me. Come to me.

-- Hurt you.

-- Hurt me. Come inside me now, though.