If time could be recognized, then we would have no need for clocks or calendars. These things are metres set against a background of haze and dream. The truth of time is that we live it. We breathe in moments and release seconds to the atmosphere where they bound and prance, teasing us before disappearing completely. They taunt us with their ephemerity.
Never have I known this so well. There is a phrase that I've often heard, growing up in a redneck family: "never bullshit a bullshitter". There's others I've grown with, but none so poignant in immediacy. If my family saw me now, there would be a shotgun involved. But they're not here. It's just me and the hay. The feel of leather and steel and the vague scent of horse sweat. I can slump and feel the rough hewn timber against my back that holds the flecks of well ridden flesh and the oils of time.
Without a way to measure the passage of moments it becomes nothing but want. I want to know how long so that I can know how much longer. I want the next installment to the series that will give me freedom and loss. Freedom from the torture, loss of the feelings that inhabit my every nerve. I want to keep feeling the thrill and the allure and the hope and the expectation and I want the end of it. Both.
Each swing of the door on the well oiled hinges gives me a shivery drip that slips into the space the spinal column occupies between brain and vertebrae. If he came in and used a wood burner on me it wouldn't feel so different. My flesh and my nerves have melded and will not be separated.
Will he drop me onto a hay bale again, my hands tied before me, my feet strapped together, and fuck me until he cums? Pound my dripping hole with animal thrusts? Before lifting my arms back over my head and leaving me hang once more? When he did that before (was it yesterday? Was it an hour ago?), I would have cum over and over were it not for his grunts in my ear "don't you dare cum."
The hay roughed my tender breasts and the cool night air after was so soothing on them that I could have let slip into a sweet shuddering. He knows when I feel like that, though. He knows me so well. That feeling of building orgasm brought me ten burning lashes to my wet ass.
Another time he fucked me while I hung there. Oh the bliss of wrapping my legs around his waist as he shoved his rock hard cock inside me. That time he stopped before either of us came. Climax, for me, (and I knew this) would be hours. I was used to it. Normally, he'll hold on with me for at least much of it. After he lets me cum the first time, I'm always free to cum as much as I want. Usually this is more than I want and far more than I need in such a short time. The feelings get so intense.
When he came in and started rubbing me with oils, my entire body, bit by bit, I would have had little orgasms not even a year before. Not just ten months ago. Even as we first dated, he let me cum as I wanted. Encouraged it even. Now, I cum only when he says and the cums that are right there for me to have (just on the tip of my clit) are only there to tantalize me more. His hands slide along my body, smoothing the muscles, soothing the nerves. His hands feel so good I would have them on me all day every day and especially now.
He takes me down from the beam I was tied to, takes me gently in his arms and kisses me easily to the ground. The hay smells sweet and is covered with a downy comforter. It feels so nice. Soft. My hands are still tied together. He secures them above my head somewhere. My legs are separated and tied to the sides.
The oil is light and sweet. His hands relaxing and knowing. I'm between the edge of sleep and easy, barely breathy orgasm. By the time he'd come this time, I'd been hanging and suffering for hours. At least in my mind. It's hard to know for sure because, like I said, time slips by in moments and events, not in seconds and details. Seconds and details are what we breathe out. What we throw back at the world.
