Dance With Me 8

I'm right here, standing in the shadows and neon light, wondering if you see me. I watch your long hands move as you talk, and I think of how they would feel on my skin. Would they bruise my hips, leave your fingerprints etched into my thighs, draw lines of blood and pleasure down my spine? Or would they skim like butterfly wings across my flesh, dipping along my hollows and curves?

Would they even touch me at all?

I sit patiently through the little ceremonies of introductions and greetings, I watch you under my eyelashes as someone else wraps me in the rough security of ropes and ritual. This must be a replay of Eve's temptation- your voice in my ear as you make conversation and ask the usual questions. Am I okay? Am I sure? I bite my tongue on what I want to say, and smile as I nod and look away.

Not that looking away helps. The sobbing blonde two racks over, with her breasts heavy and ripe, arching under the lash of the flogger wielded on her skin, swaying with surrender and sensation- and I drop my eyes before I give too much away. No one here would be shocked, or even startled, by my taste for pain. Years of being told to be ashamed of what I wanted and enjoyed are the only real bonds holding me now- these ropes are simply another layer of decoration, like mascara or cherry lip gloss. I allow myself to be led, docile and demure, and fight back the shiver of reaction every time your hand brushes past or you slide an arm around me to guide me through the crowd.

I make a game of it in my own mind. If I can get through this little scene, I'll allow myself the luxury of leaning against your shoulder for moment. If I can resist the urge to run away, I'll treat myself to a long bubble bath when I get home. And if I manage to get through this weekend, I'll start looking for someone strong enough to give over to. Maybe then I won't be so tempted...

Then again, maybe I will.

Somewhere in the labyrinth workings of my mind is a quiet room, painted golden with candlelight reflecting from a dozen mirrors. The smooth wooden arms of the cross cradle me, and the ropes that wind around my wrists leave twisted red kisses on my skin. I don't need to see your face to know when you walk up behind me, my skin prickles with warmth and awareness. The whispers of the flogger drawn along my spine draws a sigh from my throat, sparks a fine, hungry burning between my thighs.

This is what I want. The pinch and sweet ache of the weighted clamps on my nipples, deepening pink to rose. The first flick of the suede tails across my flesh- a subtle sting coupled with a whispering caress. One becomes a dozen, a pattering rain of pain and pleasure that pulls whimpers and moans out of me and my knees want to buckle beneath me. The cross holds me, the wood cool and silken beneath my limbs.

I savor the amusement in your voice, a tapestry of laughter and knowledge that swells to fill the pause between- have I had enough? Your hands soothe over my aching body, tender and cool, brushing away tears and gentling my tensed muscles. With kisses and soft words, you coax me back to words, to thinking. Awareness returns with a rush, and with it the realization of pain.

The warm blush along my back and buttocks whimpers yes. I sigh no. I can feel your pleased chuckle ripple against my flesh. You know my limits more fully than I would ever dare to dream. You already knew what I would say and the lash touches my skin again with a hundred fiery kisses, the sensory feedback overwhelming until my mind goes blissfully blank, and all I can do is feel.

This is why you are master, and I am the servant.

I come unwillingly back with a polite smile and a deftly turned phrase that makes it appear as if I have been listening. You smile in return, your face neutral and friendly, and empty of the desire that still simmers in my blood. Your guiding hand falls away, and I sigh, missing the contact already.

I won't tell you, of course. I'll bury this little coal of attraction under the ashes until it smothers itself out, and wait, patiently, for platonic friendship to override the primitive urge to submit. I'll play my role admirably, empty as it is, and simply be. I turn to meet another introduction, another friendly face, and push away the golden room, somewhere in my mind.

After all, I am just another girl in the club.

As always, feedback is welcome.