Communion

She seeks escape from domesticity to play for a few hours in another world

Their minds and bodies unite for a brief erotic encounter.

Read the photo illustrated version of Communion on Secret Obsessions

She comes to me, seeking escape from her domestic world to play for a few hours in the dappled shadows of her other life, her other self.

Her penance paid, she will return renewed to her comfortable home, her husband, her other life, leaving only the scent of her desire and echoes of her cries.

No words are spoken. We are attuned; I sense her needs as she does mine. She lifts her dress, exposes delicate panties that press down on a bush of hairs the colour of autumn leaves.

I glance down at the bed, my eyes conveying the command. She lies face down in its centre. Her movements are slow, precise, as if the air around her has thickened. Her dress, still raised, exposes full, round cheeks bisected by the dark shape of her panties. She is still shrouded, hidden.

I tap the cane on her. Obediently, she rises up onto her knees. The rounds of flesh tightening, begging for the attention of the rod. I let it hiss down. She tenses, expecting contact, that searing flash of pain of the first strike, but there is none.
“Spread your arms. Grasp the bed head.” The words break the silence in the room.

She complies. I wrap the soft rope around her wrists, binding her in place. Her surrender, her trust, is total.

The cane descends. This time there is the crack of contact. Her body jumps as if electrocuted. She writhes at the second stroke and the third, collapses down onto the bed. A double tap from just the cane’s tip commands her attention. She struggles back onto her knees; her hands still bound.

It is time. Panties are pulled down. Her lips parted like a clamshell, shrouded only my tousled golden hair, glisten in the light.

The cane bites again and again. She has crested the wave, surfing along its peak, no longer fighting the pain; embracing it, allowing it to flood through her, seep into her mind, bring her whole body alive.

Her knees spread until the panties circling her thighs bite into the flesh. Her hips flex as if she is riding an imaginary phallus. I move onto the bed to kneel behind her, the cane now beating short staccato strikes. She feels the head of my rigid shaft parting her lips and plunges back onto it.

She gasps, engulfs my flesh as if to draw it into her. My hands press down on her reddened buttocks, fingers biting at the marks. I push forward, sliding her liquid flesh along my own before slamming her back onto me. I take control, pounding into her with my rhythm.

Now I am riding my own waves thundering against the shore. I grasp at her hips like a drowning man clinging to a rock in a storm. I am erupting into her, so deep my skin is fusing with hers.

I withdraw. Leave her, the evidence of our communion seeping out of her as she sags down onto the bed.

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