Beg to Please Me

Restraining you the first time was a mistake, Slave. Now it's all I can think about.

I want us to scene in the dungeon; I want to watch onlookers' enraptured looks in the mirror as I show you off. You mark so beautifully; you whimper so prettily. You are breathtaking.

I want to see you on the St. Andrew's Cross, facing me and restrained by the same heavy white ropes and carabiners I improvised with that first time at my home. I could wrap one ten foot length around your torso, behind the cross, and up to the D-rings on your heavy black leather cuffs, and then fasten both to the arms of the cross. Simple, straightforward, effective. Take up the slack by wrapping your arms. Less skin for me to break, but above my height anyway.

I can already feel the energy in the middle of that scene: you pulling me down with you into headspace as I break you down to a pure, crying creature who knows peace through pain. I want to hear you snivel between strikes of my dragon's tongue. I want to be able to glance up between strokes and see the tears on your cheeks. God, you're beautiful. Is it your pain I admire, your acceptance of it, or what you transmute it into that moves me?

I have to press against you, connect with you. As I step toward you I exchange the dragon's tail for a coated rebar spike, one I can both cane and scratch with. Standing on the base of the cross with you, I press my naked torso against yours, feeling the patchy heat radiating from tomorrow's bruises. Another glance up, and sure enough, your eyes are shut. You're so much easier to scare this way. I open my mouth and brush my lips against your chest, and then chuckle when you flinch and whimper. What is your base instinct, I wonder, to flee or to encourage me? I kiss your chest quickly and smile when you gasp. Yes, the second option.

I know you want to be bitten. I know you want me to sink my teeth into you, pull at your flesh and muscle, take my pleasure as you burst with pain. You're so greedy. I have other plans. My nails rake up your side; I swear it's the one place you have nerves. I press myself to you as you thrash, bracing as I give the illusion of more restraint. I dig my nails deeper, pressing my forehead to your chest and purring as you try vainly to get away. "Does that hurt?" My tone always surprises me when I'm like this. I know I'm a smiling sadist, but the deep satisfaction I express by teasing still catches me off guard. "Would you rather I bite you there?" Your incoherent gasps leave me assuming you would rather fill my mouth. You won't get your satisfaction that easily.

I drag the rebar up your other side, point embedded in your skin. Finally, a yell from you. Grinning, I reverse my grip and drive it into your ribs, carefully avoiding bone and slowly leaning into it. A second yell from you and I know I've hit about the maximum pressure. "Beg me for it," I whisper. You don't respond; you seem to go quiet, whether processing or struggling to hear. "Beg." I don't care what for; I've already decided where I'm taking you next.

Some incoherent sounds begin issuing from your lips, and I decide you need encouragement. Stepping around so that my body is pressed into your side, I dig my close hand's nails into your side and employ the rebar cane in my free hand. "I. Said. Beg. Me." I punctuate every word with increasingly heavy swats of the rebar to your inner thigh; really it's so heavy I just have to pick it up and let it fall to make an impact. You're making noises, but they're not the ones I've instructed. I dig the tip of the rebar into your opposing inner thigh, low down, and begin slowly dragging upward, leaving a deep red mark. "I told you... to beg," I murmur in that threateningly kind voice.

As the point approaches your groin, I glance down to make sure I'm not going to accidentally press any major nerves. Of course that's the moment you choose to finally carry out orders. The words tumble forth from you quickly, increasing in volume and unfettered need: "Please Mistress, please let me please you; I want to please you; please let me please you!" The punctuating gasp is a nice touch, I must say.

I pause for a moment, considering, weighing your words. The point of the rebar is still only a short flick from your testicles, but I suppose I'll need those tonight. You don't need to know that just yet. Keeping the point in place, I step back in front of you, our bodies no longer pressed together. The space feels cold and expansive; I can feel your warmth calling out to me like a hearth. I ask, "And how do you think you'll do that?" You lick your lips and reply, "Any way you see fit." For the first time during the scene, you open your eyes, and look me dead in mine.

For a second, my breath catches. I'm always amazed at the complete lack of defiance in your determined gaze. You truly mean to please me as I see fit, no other scorekeeper in your head. I always have to take my moment to acknowledge and be grateful for the gift of your submission. But, the show must go on, before the heat dies down. All this transpires in my head in an emotional second. Coming back to the present, I huff through my nostrils, and set the rebar down on the table next to us. I take a moment to dip into my bag and tuck a condom and a knife into my underwear, the only clothing on me besides my slippers. "Alright." I utter the word almost matter-of-factly, none of the sadism left in my voice.

Standing on tip-toe, I unclip your wrists, bring your hands down in front of you, and repurpose the heavy rope and carabiners as a lead by attaching them to your cuff. I give you a moment to roll your shoulders and shake out your arms, then turn and head for the door to the outdoor play area. One of the St Andrew's Crosses in the grass is free, so I lead you to it. "Kneel." You face the cross, and I move around you to unclip one of the ends of the rope, loop it around the backs of both legs of the cross, and clip it back to your cuff. "Lay down on your back; cross your arms." The rope twists over itself, and again your sides are exposed to me.

With a sigh of deep satisfaction, I admire you laid out before me. I plant a foot on either side of your hips and stare down at you as though I'm scrutinizing you. Whether you get nervous or show off I love watching you. I slip my feet out of my dungeon slippers and kneel on them, straddling your waist. I reach into my underwear and retrieve the knife, flip it open, and grin as your eyes go wide. Yes, this one is a real blade. I press the side of the tip into your chest, carefully dragging it upward across your pec. Your tremors add a degree of difficulty; I'm still new to knife play and almost preoccupied by safety. Still, I keep my composure, reverse my grip, and slide the back of the blade across your throat, coming to rest high against the side of your neck, above your thick collar.

"Will you bleed for me, Slave?"

This time, your answer comes immediately, although in the form of a keening whimper. Your eyes tightly shut, your arms clearly straining against your own self-preservation, you turn your head away and offer your neck to me. Breath taken again, I simply sit enraptured, until I realize my dumbly open lips could be better used pressed against yours. I grab a handful of your hair and turn your head toward me, toward the back of the blade, and lean forward to pour my passion into you - and drink from your passion simultaneously.

Head no longer clear enough to handle a knife, I rear back and fumble to close it. I twist, holding it over the grass in case I drop it while trying to close it. A moment of anxiety, and then, success! I set it down next to us and reorient myself to your panting visage, patiently waiting to squirm underneath me. I smile. Time for the condom.