On the Edge

This is the first time she has surrendered to her hidden desires. Now, she waits.

Photo Copyright: The Author

This is the first time she has surrendered to her hidden desires. Now, she waits.

I am sweating; the tiny beads combining to form little rivulets that trickle between my breasts. Arms stretched up, suspended by rope that disappears into the darkness above me. Naked save for my knickers. That tiny triangle of satin fabric the only thing preserving any semblance of modesty. The final barrier.

The room is dark, silent. I am waiting, my mind filled with images from the past mixing with expectations of the future; the ropes binding my wrists are nipping at my skin, pinching at me like the school bully once did.

This is the first time I have done this; surrendered myself, offered my submission. We have spent what seem like hours discussing it. He has asked about my desires, what I want to feel, what turns me on, but has never once suggested how he would achieve that.

Now I stand, bound, almost naked in a darkened, empty room, staring into the abyss, nipples swollen hard like miniature fruit pastels; those sweets we used to eat as kids. Hard yet soft, their sugar coated, rough surface could be squeezed between thumb and forefinger, but would spring back into shape when released. Will he suck on them, or will his fingers bring pain?

He enters the room, dressed in dark trousers and a black shirt. His black shoes pad across the floor as he moves into the light close to me. The contrast of him fully dressed, me naked; black against white powers into my mind.

My head tips down; his fingers are pulling at the elastic of my knickers, stretching the thin barrier, forcing it between my so wet lips, pressing it against that spot that sends shivers through me. I look up. There is a question in his dark brown eyes. This is what I want, what I desire, have asked for, pleaded for.

I nod.

The knickers slide away from me. He pulls them down between my thighs, past my knees until they hang, a discarded symbol of my submission, on the ropes around my ankles.

His fingers brush my mons, gliding over it, pushing apart the soft flesh of my thighs, sending tingles through me as they curl and spread my lips, barely parting the folds. I am so liquid with desire he could take me now; use me, bring me to a peak.

He withdraws, leaves me gasping, and steps back into the darkness. I feel a surge of pride; he is standing back admiring me, as if I am an artwork in a gallery. An artwork he, no we, have created.

He moves, circling me, admiring every angle, his torso and face dark in the shadows. The gentle slap of his leather soled shoes on the concrete floor stops in the darkness, out of sight behind me.

I tense. He is examining the table I had laid out so carefully before we began. I examined each item, testing the pliancy and strength, imagining what it would feel like against my skin as I positioned it precisely to his instructions. He has told me I have no choice in which he will use, or how he applies it. There is only one option; a word buried deep in my mind that will make everything stop.

I know what is coming; I have asked, pleaded for it, but now my mind is swirling with one question: when? My ass is naked, tight, muscles straining in anticipation. My breasts feel swollen, the nipples so hard that they hurt. Between my legs that intimate entrance to my body is throbbing, discharging spasms through me as if it has become a battery.

Breathe girl, breathe, I tell myself, feeling my cheeks redden, my mind become dizzy as I hold my breath - waiting.

I scream and then suck in air like a drowning woman surfacing. Pain fires across my behind and sparks through my body. I feel the cheeks of my ass flexing as whatever he is using bites at me again, and then again.

My yelps become gasps until there is no sound except the hissing of air between my teeth as each blow lands. He pauses. Pain is singing through me, a raging fire is consuming me, burning me from the inside out. My mind tries to concentrate. What is he using? It is flat, wide, but seems to split itself into two fiery brands. The strop, no, it is the tawse.

It wraps itself around my flesh again. This time I hear the crack, my body jerks, the ropes around my wrists biting into my skin as I pull against them and the fire is rekindled. A switch clicks over in my mind. My body responds, something inside me is changing the power of the sensations. What began as pure pain is becoming - what? Pleasure? Arousal? Lust?

If my hands were free, my fingers would be working frantically between my legs. I am so close, riding the crest of a wave so completely that a single touch would send me spiralling into the abyss.

He stops. He has lit the fire, watched it rage through me and now he stands in front of me. I pray he is going to fan the flames. The end of the leather strap brushes my nipple. I close my eyes; the mere touch of it sending shivers prickling through me.

It bites at my nipple. My body twists, my knees buckle, leaving me hanging from the rope. Spasms shoot through me as he flicks it again. My mind is fizzing, swirling, plunging into darkness as it is shaken to the core.

I open my eyes. The room is blurred. I have never experienced anything as powerful before. It is like a drug. My core is molten, leaking the craving to be touched, possessed, down my inner thighs. He slackens the rope suspending me. I bend at the waist, my torso now horizontal to the floor, my lips parted, beckoning him in.

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