Sunday, July 27, 2008

Arms to the sky

From time to time, i will experience a period of introspection wherein i evaluate my dominance in the domestic power exchange that informs my household's operation. Lately, i have felt that i had not taken as stern a position as i could in the correction and training of my girl (of course, if you ask her, she might completely disagree with this, and rather categorize this self-criticism as a symptom of my perfectionism). Hearing the poor marks i give myself, there are those of you who visit this site and must wonder:

"Does this man think about anything else besides how he can torment and control his female companion?"

"How much more mental energy does he need to put to the fulfillment of his erotic appetite?"

"He's unhealthily obsessed with trifling matters, when there are much more pressing issues facing us."

And i would understand most of why you'd come to these conclusions. Perhaps, i should surrender to these societal pressures, thrust my arms up and give in. However, there is very little that i find trifling when it comes to how i manage my substantial responsibility to my girl. It is our mutual goal to contribute to the world whenever we can a song of beauty, and it just so happens that the best way we've found to do so is played through the instrument of our power dynamic. And i'd noticed, as i said, it had slipped a little.

Starting about Wednesday, i'd begun to carve out the etching of what would be the posture i'd force her to assume by week's end. Lately, for her end-of-the-week swattings, i've given her a considerably easy instruction of standing naked at the foot of our bed. Instead of giving her the pedestrian option of the stolid placement in our bedroom, i realized i needed to ratchet up the configuration.

Friday arrived, and hanging in the air upon our mutual arrivals home was a heavy urgency to commune within the safety of our secretive sanctuary. I chose not to mince too many words before i informed her how she would need to prepare herself.

Naked. Occupying the door jam of my bureau.

As she prepared herself, i took to arranging the proper tools i would need. Seven meter coil of jute rope, adjustable metal spreader bar, brown leather cat-o-nine whip, pelt of white rabbit fur.

I asked her to press her wrists together, as i lassoed them with rope. Quickly, i bound them together, then using the tail of the line in my hands like a leash, i led her arms above her head, tossing the rope over the installed chin-up bar (used previously in here) and then slowly levering her limbs up until only the balls of her feet nestled on the wood flooring below. I wrapped each leather cuff of the spreader bar around its corresponding ankle, adusting the joining staff which cemented the distance her legs would be held rigidly spread. Securing her wrists to the vertical overhead bar, i took the remainder of the rope and spooled it around the back of the head and over her mouth, forcing lengths of rope to slice open the peel of her lips pressed together. I continued to wrap it around her head, over eyes, fashioning a rough, splintery blindfold that twisted imperfectly across her alabaster. My fun had just begun.

I lifted the whip into my hand, and let go a few fiery strokes of warning into the air. The muscles of her backside clenched, in anticipation of the blows that would rain down upon her flesh. I stroked the air with the leather tendrils, gradually guiding each lash closer and closer to her skin, until finally, the sharp textile bit into her sweaty epidermis. Her back arched in protest, as her arms fought the bindings that kept her hands above like satellites to this earthly torture.

I felt the blood coursing through my muscles, defining the strength and energy i had at my disposal. It had very few limits. I swished her back with the whip, whispering across her flesh metronomic traces, occasionally laying down a leaden track of slashing pain.

Moving to her front side, i remembered something she'd uttered to me as she disrobed.

"Please be aware that my lower back has been rather strained, and it's caused me a great deal of pain."

With my pledge to avoid this area, i attacked her completely vulnerable and exposed cunt. I quickly slapped it with the whip's leather tentacles, so much that she pulled it away from me, which inadvertently pushed her swelling tits outward.

"Oh, so you want me to slap your titty instead? I'm happy to oblige."

I shortened the length of the leather bludgeoner and focused solely on the perky mammaries pointed up at my head. Her nipple piercings twisted in the air, like tin cans spinning off of a fence post after being hit by buckshot. I resumed my attention upon her bashful crotch, giving it more battering than i know she cared for. I stopped. I listened to her breath. I reached up and felt the temperature of her rope-bound hands, gauging how much longer she had.

Picking up the thick rabbit pelt into my hands, i washed her body with the smooth sensations of furry comfort, erasing the previous bombardment, settling her mind, in preparation for the next. I dropped the pelt onto my nightstand, and picked up the whip once again. Positioning myself behind her bound frame, i asked her to tell me a number through her ropey gag.

"Fowh."

"What?!? Are you serious?"

She was being asked to declare how many strokes would fall upon her skin. I loved doing this to her. I loved presenting her with the quandary of how numerous her beatings would be. Often, i don't agree with the number she chooses, which i know she ultimately thinks inside her head,"Well why did you have me choose, if you knew what number you wanted???" That's not the point. Rather, i want her to be invested in her own whipping. I thoroughly enjoy the idea that she is essentially going out to the forest and picking the branch with which i will use to whip her.

Once we settled on a number, i concentrated on the one square foot of real estate her ass occupied, examing each curve and tuck that i'd like to swipe with the whip. After each stroke, gagged or not, she knows she must count out the accumulated number. As i built to the final total, i enjoyed slashing her buttocks with crimson graffiti, while her bound arms held her up, signaling her complete surrender.

5 comments:

elise said...

Mm. Not all of us wonder.

elise

doll said...

What a delicious picture you paint. Reminding us again of your contrasting qualities - primitive and aesthete.

Anonymous said...

There I was waiting for the minestrone to be ready and I thought, 'I wonder if Deity has written about his Friday?'

And you didn't disappoint. Lovely.

But do tell. Sometimes, afterwards, when she can give voice to her thoughts, does she call you names? Be honest now!

Rob

Ani Smith said...

Lucky, lucky girl.

Deity said...

elise,
and i'm grateful for every single one of you who don't.

doll,
you have a continuous streak going of very poignant and articulate comments. you do astound me.

rob,
i'm touched that i may have come to your mind as you made a soup from my native land.

in all honesty, she doesn't call me names. it wouldn't be worth it, because she knows, that in the end, it's her tail they get stuck to.

ani!
hello, darlin! nice to see you again.