The Velvet Edge: the Game

Every game has its rules and ours is no exception. When we play, three glowing buttons appear before me suspended in the darkness of my mind's eye. One is yellow, one is red, and one of them pulses with white light. They are connected to a language that I share only with you.

Your first gift to me was these words, which you instructed me to use as often as I need to without fear of judgment, penalty, or interrogation. They are a gift of power, a gift of trust, a gift of acceptance, a gift of acknowledgment of my inherent weakness as a creature made of flesh and histories, a gift of respect for my personal boundaries.

Those buttons hang above me now as, arms tied behind me at the wrists, I rest my face against the mattress. My knees are tucked up under me, my parts are on display for you. You regard me as a musician regards his favorite instrument. I cannot see you well out of the corner of my eye, but I can tell that you are considering how to play my body tonight. Whatever the tune, I will bend and sigh and scream as your bow commands.

You tell me to open my mouth. I do. You place two fingers on my tongue and I close my mouth around them, taking them inside of me, taking you inside of me, my body made to take you however you choose to give yourself to me. You press your fingers farther into my mouth, bending the tips down my throat. My throat tightens around them, and a stinging moisture creeps along my pressed eyelids as I slightly gag, but I hear you moan softly, so I do not object, though I know I could. I am sinking into my meditation, I am falling into the place where my pleasure transcends my physical limitations. The buttons glow before me, a quiet reminder that for now, I ignore.

You remove your fingers and I am saddened to be emptied of you, to break the connection. But it is not long before you press a wet finger against my anus. Now I understand.

You press harder, until your finger penetrates the tight ring of muscle, and without lubrication, my body objects, pushing against you despite my own desire to fill myself with you. I suck in a breath as you force your second moistened finger into my body alongside the first. A cry escapes my lips as you shove your fingers deeper. The pain is not unbearable and you are gentle enough to prevent breaking skin, yet the motion is stern, your desire shall not go unfulfilled. If you want me this way you shall have me this way, and I will give myself to you this way.

"Are you all right," you whisper, though it is more a formality than a question. I have not said the words, I have not spoken the true language. All other words mean nothing now, it is only your words that matter. I have no words of my own save the ones you gave to me as a gift when we first embarked on this journey.

You do not wait for my answer before once again inching your fingers in deeper. My body rejects you, but I crave more. I want you inside of me, I want to be filled with you, I want to hold you inside of me forever, completing me, elevating me. Sweat forms on my brow and I become aware of the ache in my arms, which are pulled tight against my back and secured there with rope. I struggle to push myself under, to dive into my space, to release my body, but the pain focused between my legs keeps drawing me back to the unfortunate realities of my body.

Mercifully you begin stroking my labia with your free hand. You run your fingers along the folds of my lips, gently parting them, opening up my vagina to you. My wetness betrays my masochism, you finger just the opening, not quite entering, only teasing me. But it is enough to draw my attention away from your other fingers, which stretch my anus, until I hear you spit, and then feel the saliva drip down between my buttocks, seeping in between your fingers. In one swift motion, you begin thrusting your fingers in my anus as you slide a finger slick with my wetness up to rub my clitoris. Everything hits me at once and I cry into the mattress, muffling my agony, my pleasure, my dizzying fall into total submission.

I am all at once yours and completely my own, my body merely a vessel, an object, my mind jumping to a heightened state of ecstasy, a private level of being that you can only take me to but never know for yourself.

You begin thrusting faster, each pump digging deeper as you continue to press a finger against my clitoris. I scream louder into the mattress. The ache in my shoulders yanks me out of my head space, and between my legs I seesaw between pleasure and pain and the point where the two intersect in a perfect union of sensation. I begin to squirm, to buck against your body. I feel the orgasm coming, rolling up onto me like a tsunami, about to crash and wash everything away.

"Sir, may I? May I please Sir?" I beg. You do not answer. I am holding the waters at bay, but my dam bends beneath the pressure, I can hear it creaking. I am about to explode with light, my whole body trembles with an unleashed and growing energy. I cannot have it unless you grant it, and the consequences are dire. I am desperate now, vibrating between my body and my darkness. "SIR MAY I PLEASE!"

You answer only by driving your fingers into me harder, equally increasing the pressure on the bundle of nerves which crowns my vulva. I know you love it when I beg. It is part of the game and it is a role I play with total enthusiasm. I imagine your penis hardening inside your pants at the tone of panic in my voice. The wave of orgasm towers over me, about to fall, nearly beyond my control.

I ask again, this time more quietly, but I still receive no answer. The orgasm is more than I can hold and the three buttons flash before me with new light. Is it too much? Can I do this? Can I obey you? Is it too much? All it takes is one word, one word to control you, one word to end the game. These are the rules. You made them just for me. I wield them as I choose.

I fail, I orgasm. It shakes my entire body, I feel everything tighten and release, and I know you can feel it too. The water rushes over me, the flowing energy unloosing a scream from my mouth. "Sir I'm sorry," I plead quickly. But I am not really sorry. I am glowing from the inside out, my orgasm was selfish, it was all my own, he could not control me, I am secretly pleased.

Just as I am secretly pleased with the punishment that falls swiftly across my buttocks as you strike me again and again with your open palm. Then you pull my hair and drag me off of the bed. The motion is awkward, I falter, my arms are numb behind my back, you do not care, and again the buttons flash in my mind, but I am not ready yet.

You lead me to the bathroom, you open the toilet seat, you tell me to sit, you tell me to urinate. Shame flushes my cheeks. You command me to urinate again, but in the heat of the moment and my embarrassment, I cannot. You stare down at me, I cannot look into your eyes. For a third time you order me to relieve myself. You mock my orgasm, you tell me it's nothing more than bed wetting, and since I took one without permission I must give you something lesser now. I can feel the urgency, but nothing comes. I cannot obey you. It breaks me. The buttons come to me again, flashing brightly.

Finally I relieve myself. It is only a little, but I have done as you commanded. You tell me to get up, you tell me to bend over, and tearing a piece of bathroom tissue, you wipe me clean, as if polishing some machinery. I blush deeply.

You command me to my knees, and when I hesitate, you shake me by my hair, causing me to cry out. You grab my face.

"You have disappointed me," you tell me. It is almost a death sentence.

The part of me that remains in the real world sinks a little, my tether to that place weakens. You are my everything right now, I live, I breathe, I exist exclusively to your design. Such damning words push me to an edge I may not be able to recover from.

On my knees, you drag me to the toilet bowl. I feel the pressure on the back of my neck and the smell of my own fluids wafts into my nose. My heart is pounding in my ears, the buttons - big, bright, and central in my mind - pulsing in time with it.

Can I do this? The prospect of my inadequacies crushes me. If you place me here surely you believe I can accomplish this - right? Is this a test? Do you not already know my undying loyalty? How could you question me? Have I not served you well?

The words, my own words, echo quietly in my mind, coupled to the glowing buttons and my roaring heartbeat. I can see you standing before me, your hand outstretched to give me this gift, this gift of a language that is completely and utterly ours, this gift of power, this gift of mercy, this gift of love. I reach out for the button.

"White," I say, "White white white." It is the word to end the game all together. The other two merely ease or transfer the energy of our play, but "White" breaks the spell, "White" brings everything back.

You cease completely. You wordlessly and urgently untie my arms, close the toilet, take me away from the bathroom and ease me into bed, where you hold me and stroke my hair and kiss my forehead.

"I wasn't going to do it," you say, "I was going to stop."

I curl up into the curve of your body. You say, "You knew that, right? I wasn't going to do that to you, you knew that, didn't you?"

I consider lying to you, but to do so in this exquisite exchange of power and trust would be to commit a grave sin. "No, I didn't," I admit.

You squeeze me tightly, affectionately.

"That's why the game has rules," you say.