Primordial Chant

Throughout the week, we had seen each other only in brief glimpses. We were due for Saturday breakfast together. I awoke early as usual and let her sleep, curled around a ball of covers, red curls spilling around the pillow.

I prepared for us bagels with cream cheese and grape jam, bacon, juice and coffee. If my stirring in the kitchen did not awaken her, the combined aromas of coffee and frying bacon surely did. The coffee maker had not even halfway filled the glass pot before I heard her in the bathroom. A few minutes later she came down to the kitchen. She had brushed out her red curls so they fell about her shoulders, and she wore that blue, terrycloth robe—the one whose bulkiness hides her petite shape, so that when it opens, her femaleness takes me by surprise—small, perfect breasts, subtly curved hips, and a luxurious red thatch.

She sat in a stool on the opposite side of the counter from me and glanced ravenously at the bacon. “That smells so good,” she said when the coffee maker was finally done, and I poured her a cup. The bagels came out of the toaster lightly browned, just as she likes them, and I placed them on a plate for us to share. She thanked me and waited as I moved about the kitchen, gathering the other items. When everything was ready, I sat across from her.

As we ate in silence, her blue eyes, with those tiny flecks of brown, would not let me go. Her gaze took hold of mine, her bright, knowing eyes demanding to use mine as portals of entry, and I had to look away.

“Look at me,” she said in a tone just above a whisper that has a special hold on me. She knew, without any conscious indication from me, that my special need was rising.

My eyes returned to hers, and in a matter of moments she splayed my natural resistance. With her gaze she entered me—invading, conquering, subduing.

“Don’t look away,” she said, knowing my anguish, my terrible need to hide from her probing. Her words came to me in a breathy, suggestive tone.

I did not look away. Even when she would unlock our eyes momentarily to glance down at the breakfast plate, I maintained my focus on her oval, fair-skinned face, decorated with a thousand tiny freckles and framed by so much billowing red hair. Once again I was smitten, as am I smitten every day, as I have been smitten over and over again in the years we have been together.

She finished breakfast way ahead of me, and then began feeding me—offering strips of bacon, or pieces of bagel, or holding the cup or the juice glass to my lips. She moved her face closer to mine, looking into me intently as she fed me. I recalled how, when she nursed our babies, she would hold them, looking into the infant’s eyes, the infant looking into hers adoringly and making tiny cooing noises around the suckling sounds. Those two infants, the most recent having left for college a year ago, are suddenly adults. Although we miss them terribly, we also revel in the freedom our new privacy affords us.

I said, “Mmmm.”

She did not respond. She continued to feed me bits of breakfast. But then, she almost never does respond immediately when I say it. It is usual for her to ignore me, to make me wait, and that is what she did this time.

I know how much she loves to make me wait. And I do love the waiting, because it gives her so much pleasure—and, my greatest fulfillment is to be the deliver of pleasure for her.

“Mmmm…” It is not really a word. Nor is it actually spoken. It begins deep in the diaphragm, a primitive breath. It vibrates the larynx, resonates through upper chambers, and then it finds its way to the atmosphere through the nostrils, like some primordial chant.

“Mmmm…” Her secret name. A sound, that when intoned, can sometimes strip away the very the substance by which we normally define ourselves as a couple. When that happens—when she does respond to my monk-like incantation—we enter into a sacred chamber where abides our true nature as lovers, a nature that belongs only to us to the exclusion of any other reality.

When she finished feeding me, she finally broke the spell by looking away. I gathered the dishes and took them to the sink.

“Drop them, please,” she whispered, and I slid the pajama bottoms down till they fell around my ankles. “And leave them there.”

I moved about the kitchen in tiny little steps. She read the paper while I did the dishes. She thanked me for breakfast, and took great interest in the article on the front page, commenting on it, thus ensuring that the focus of her attention was not on me, nor on my male urgency bobbing and swinging as I moved about.

As she searched for where the article was continued somewhere inside the paper, the turning of pages rattled loudly in the absence of conversation. Her quick glance over the top of the paper caused me to look down, and see my erection presenting a bead of dew. Then, she started on the crossword, only glancing up from time to time as a sign for me to leave my chores to refill her cup. The accumulating dew could no longer maintain its place in the tiny slit at the tip of my penis. It fell, slowly stretching a thin, clear string that connected me to the floor.

“My, my,” she finally said, “someone is up early this morning,”

“Yes,” I said, burdened and embarrassed by the fullness of my erection.

She grinned at my condition, which brought a small laugh from both of us.

Mercifully, she did not make me remain in that state for the entire time it would have taken to complete the crossword.

“You need it, don’t you,” she said without looking up from the puzzle.

“Yes,” I admitted in a whisper. Then, once again, I intoned, “Mmmm.”

Her response was to smile and say, “Come over here.”

Impeded by the pajama bottoms around my ankles, I went to her in tiny steps. How long had it been since I first confessed my special need? Yet, after so much time had passed, and after so many sessions, I still felt that initial fumbling embarrassment all over again.

“You’re my little bullyboy, aren’t you,” she said as she looked into my eyes. Over time the name has grown into a term of endearment during our play, yet it also mocks my masculinity.

“Yes, Mmmm.” I felt my ears flush.

I hobbled around to her side of the counter and stood before her. Her hands found their way under my pajama shirt, and she slowly felt the bulk of my chest. Her lips relaxed into a knowing smile. Then she slid the shirt over my head and arms and asked me to step out of the bottoms. As I did so, she wiped some of the excess dew from my penis, presenting her fingers to my lips for cleaning.

“Thank you, Mmmm.”

She bade me ascend two stools and kneel, one knee on each round seat, and lean across the counter, resting on my elbows. She remained seated on her own stool and teased the hair on the backs of my thighs.

“So, tell me what you think.”

“About what, Mmmm?”

“About yourself, of course. I mean, here you are, a mature, powerful male with big shoulders and a broad chest, a man who makes weighty decisions day after day, a man whom I’m sure many a woman observes—and imagines how you would be in bed—just how you would take her—whether you would be gentle at first—in what little ways you would tease—slowly undo her self-protective resolve—take her to the place where she would willingly open her legs to your powerful thighs and present her sex to you for the fucking—and she would cry out her surrender as you took her and demanded her soulful response… Oh, yes, I’ve seen them look at you.”

“You flatter me, Mmmm.”

“Now let’s look at the reality. Here you are, kneeling for your little woman, your legs held apart by their positions on two stools, asshole in the air, balls hanging out in full view for your mate to do with as she pleases… Kind of a different picture, isn’t it.”

At the truth of her words, my head lowered of its own accord. My forehead rested on the cool tile of the countertop. She grabbed a pinch of hair on my leg and twisted, causing my thigh muscle to jerk.

“No, don’t you dare feel bad about it,” she laughed.

“But I’m embarrassed,” I said. “Ashamed and embarrassed.” I felt myself flush.

“Embarrassed, yes, my bullyboy” she whispered in a forceful, coaching manner. “But never ashamed. Embarrassment is a true emotion. Shame is an invention for enforcing convention, and the mix of emotions that make up your sexuality is anything but conventional. That mix is you, my bullyboy, not what others expect you to be. Remember, it is you I love, not some other fictitious person made up by a committee.”

“I do so love you, Mmmm.”

Fingernails slid up my thigh and raked the back of my scrotum. My testicles suddenly rose, seeking protection, but she cupped them and pulled them down. May anus drew in, sensing danger.

“Hold onto the far edge of the counter.”

I did as instructed, and then she pushed down on my back so my torso was flat on the counter, the tiles cool against my chest and stomach.

“Stay like that,” she said.

“Yes, Mmmm.”

The position put my ass high in the air. I began imagining what she might do as I listened to her movements in the kitchen, taking something out of a cupboard, finding something in a drawer. Then she was still. I sensed her behind me.

“Is my little bullyboy afraid?”

“Yes, Mmmm.”

A drop of liquid fell onto my tailbone. It was cold, and I thought for a moment she had decided drip water from an ice cube, although I had not heard her open the freezer.

“You know I would never harm you.”

“Yes, of course, Mmmm.”

The drop slid off the tailbone and into the hollow below it and then found my anus. On fire, anal muscles suddenly drew inward. Then, unable to hide from the burn, the opening pouted outward, as if trying to expel the flame. In confusion, the sphincter quivered. When it finally relaxed, she applied another drop. She continued applying alcohol, one drop at a time from an eyedropper, one after another, slowly, with plenty of time between them.

“You are enduring well. That must burn.”

“Yes, Mmmm, it does.” My breathing was uneven.

After a time, the smarting lessened, and so she stopped the procedure. A sudden smack centered on my ass. I recognized the feel of the wooden spoon. I cried out in surprise and in the realization of how hard on me she can be with this instrument.

“You need it, don’t you, bullyboy.”

“Yes, Mmmm.”

“You don’t sound quite so sure, now that you sense I’m holding the spoon. Are you sure about it? Are you ready to endure for me?”

I waited a moment before saying it. “Yes, Mmmm. I am ready to endure for you.”

The size and shape of the back of a wooden spoon is a perfect match to the carnal topography of a person’s ass. A perfect match for delivering blows. A perfect match in the way grainy convex curve engages the place where tops of thighs, cheeks, and creases all converge—for firing tender skin surfaces, frightening the anus into receding ever more deeply into its dark, protective crevice.

After just a few, I was whining. These were not the playful taps I would have expected. She was being deliberate in her firmness. Nor were they intermittent. Their delivery was matter-of-fact, evenly spaced, but with little time between. I cried out. She stopped.

“You are starting to wiggle,” she whispered in my ear. “You need to hold still if you are serious about enduring this for me.”

“Am I being punished?” I rasped.

“Do you need to be punished, bullyboy?”

I lowered my forehead to the tiled countertop. She remained silent. I confessed in a halting voice that I had told someone her secret name: Mmmm. I had revealed it inadvertently, in an email, to another submissive with whom I have had casual contact on line. It was not someone we would ever have a chance of meeting. Nevertheless, I had done it. I had let someone else get a glimpse into our sacred chamber.

She responded to my confession with total silence. The fire started by her application of the spoon slowly lost some of its intensity. She remained behind me, and I wondered what she was thinking.

“As always,” she finally said in a thoughtful tone, “it is not I who determine punishment for you. It is you, bullyboy. It is you who must look into yourself and decide.”

“Yes, Mmmm.”

“So, what shall it be? Do you need to be punished or not? If no, then we will stop here. If yes, then we shall continue—until I decide you have endured enough.”

The hot embers of my flesh demanded I say no.

“Yes.”

She resumed. Mercifully, in response to the severity of the spanking, the mind soon found a veiled place of refuge, from where white-hot pain seemed removed, as if happening to someone else, and in spite of its terrible intensity, almost soothing. I was aware of my own tears, the cries, the trembling… Once, in my thrashing about, I lifted a knee from its stool and shifted my weight to one side, to which she responded with a short interruption in the spanking to deliver a hard smack to the tender inner thigh of the offending leg. The spanking went on. And on. The cries became punctuated with sounds like that of an animal bellowing. I heard her whisper encouragement. At some point I came to the realization that I had collapsed onto the counter, cool tiles against my stomach and chest and the side of my face. The spanking had ceased. I heard her put away the spoon. She remained quiet and still, leaving me to sob.

When my breathing finally settled back to normal, she tore off a sheet of paper towel and used it to apply alcohol. Fire immediately rekindled, flared up and made me cry out again. She shushed me. The burning dissipated as the alcohol evaporated and brought on a cooling sensation.

“You did very well.”

“Thank you, Mmmm.”

Holding my buttocks, she rocked my hips from side to side, and then laughed at the way my scrotum swung against my inner thighs.

“You do it, bullyboy,” she said. “Rock yourself side to side. I want to watch your balls banging into your legs. It is so funny to see. Too bad you can’t see it. Yes, that’s it. Keep on rocking, banging those balls into your thighs, like a clapper in a bell. Ding-dong. Ding-dong. That’s what I’ll call them—wouldn’t that be funny—yes, your balls are Ding and Dong.”

Her enjoyment broke the tension, and I laughed also—until she grabbed my left testicle and squeezed between thumb and fingers. I yelped.

“Say its name.”

“Ding,” I whimpered. “Dong,” I whimpered again when she did the same to the right. “Ding…Dong…Ding…Dong…”

This game went on for some time, and she remained quiet as she systematically applied the pressure, just enough to make me question my ability to endure any more. Finally, she ceased and came around to the other side of the counter, took a handful of my damp hair and pulled my head up, putting her face a few inches from mine, looking into me with blue eyes that had tiny flecks of brown.

“How did you know, Mmmm? How did you know I needed to be punished?”

She smiled. “It was in your eyes, bullyboy. In the past few days, I saw it slowly rising in your eyes.”

With her free hand, she moved the cascade of red curls that had fallen over her front, placing them back over her shoulders. She opened her robe. Caressing my hair with her fingers, she coaxed me to the freckled landscape, to a small, perfect breast. Again, I intoned her secret name.