Finding My Limits

I lie in the darkness, and wait for him to return.

I'm not entirely sure how long he has been gone - twenty minutes, thirty? My nose itches, but I have already tried and failed to raise my hands to my face. Even when I lift my knees to bring the tether points closer, the ropes bite at my wrists as they come level with my breasts. He has tied me carefully - not so tightly as to leave me in pain, but tightly enough that I cannot work my way loose, no matter how much I wriggle against his knots. I don't even try, I watched him deftly looping and tying the strands of red and black silk and I know he has secured me well. The pain will come later. He has promised to push me to my limit tonight, to make me ask him to stop. I've never needed to before, and I push away a wave of anxiety as I wonder exactly where that limit is.

He laid out his collection carefully on the beside table before he started weaving his intricate web of ropes around my calves. He has used the paddle many times, swishing and swatting it against the curve of my arse almost playfully, but I am aware that he has never put his full strength behind the blows. The coiled belt has held my wrists and neck still, has been flicked over the back of my thighs to remind me exactly who is in charge, but I have never feared it as I do now. However, I think it is the flogger that I fear most - its strands of black leather that have tickled and teased and stung me, its plaited handle that has been clamped between my teeth to quiet me. The still-fresh memory of the stinging pain that lingered on my cheeks the one time he stood me against the mirrored wardrobe and showed me a little of his true strength, swinging his arm back to land a series of blows on my pale skin. He will work his way through them all, but if it is the limit of my tolerance he is seeking, it is the flogger he will use to find it. It is his favourite.

I still have no idea when he will come back. I can't hear him, and I suspect he is sitting quietly downstairs, knowing that every minute he leaves me here in the dark, bound and helpless, my anxious anticipation grows. I shift my weight and the ropes at my ankles tighten as if at his behest, reminding me that I am under strict instructions to remain still and quiet. My pulse quickens as another wave of panic rises. He knows how I struggle with restraint, knows that my claustrophobic tendencies rail against the loss of my freedom. The darkness in the room is suffocating me, my legs are laced tightly together, but as I slip my hand between my thighs I am wet in anticipation of his return and the brush of my fingers over my clit makes me shudder. I draw my hand away. He did not have to tell me so, but I know that touching myself is against the rules, and I do very much want to good.

That is my reward, along with the tingle and warmth that follows his blows. To be praised and cosseted. He will cease his blows and run his fingertips so gently over my tender skin, making me shiver, he will bury his face in my neck. "Good girl" he will breathe, setting butterflies loose in my stomach. "So very brave. My good girl." It still surprises me, the way my heart leaps at those words. I had been so independent, so stubbornly self sufficient for so long, that I never imagined that those two simple words could dismantle me so expertly. Never imagined the glow of pride I would feel the night he put his collar around my neck and told me softly that I belonged to him now.

I am growing restless. This wait is part of the torture, I know. He has told me very clearly that he plans to test my bravery tonight, and he knows I will turn this over in my mind until he returns and is ready to begin. Just how much can I endure, and will I disappoint him when I ask him to stop? I know he will - I trust him implicitly-but I want to please him. I want so very much to be good. I hope I can live up to his expectations.

Suddenly I hear him on the stairs. Slow, deliberate steps. He knows I know that he is coming. The doors opens and the low light from the hall lamp spills into the room, illuminating me, waiting still and quiet on the bed just where he left me. I know that he is pleased about that. "Babygirl" he says quietly, hoarsely, and I am suddenly not anxious any more. I am ready to find out just where my limits are.