The twist in the kink

Another sample from a novella-length series of scenes. Check the link for the full story - or just enjoy this part.

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No, it's not what you think.

I step away.

I walk out of the door and you follow me to my bedroom. The bed has been made, the sheet clean and smooth, the cover pulled aside. There are pillows ready, and a few lengths of smooth, shiny black rope have been neatly placed near the headboard.

I look at you and take off my top. I am wearing a body of plain black lycra, the sheer cups of the bra section showing my nipples, hard and darkened, ready to be touched and licked.

I reach under my skirt and pull off the panties, damp and smelling of my arousal, drop them on the floor. I leave my stockings and skirt on and look at you, waiting expectantly, your cock not as stiff as it was earlier but not entirely limp either.

And you still don't know, do you?

I sit on the edge of the bed and reach for one of the thinner pieces of rope.

“C'mere, boy.”

You come near, getting fully erect within seconds of my touching you. I tie your junk, round the base and then in a cross between your balls, tight enough to be felt and effective but not as tight as to have you lose blood supply any time soon. Your balls are smooth, shiny, bulging; the skin stretched and hot. Your cock is rock hard  now and you moan again when I lean my head down to grab it and lick around it. It feels like we've done it hundreds of times. Actually, we have, in one way or another, haven't we?

My tongue moves slowly on your skin, smooth, wet licks that have you gasp and shiver.

“Mmmm. I love this. I want to slap it now.”

“Please. Please do, Ma'am. I need it...”

And so I do what you're asking for and you reel a little again and moan again, and I moan too, a deep ooooh turning into a louder, hoarser, lower 'Ohhhh fuck...'.

I am so turned on now, so wired up that I almost – almost – give up the plan, interrupt the script that I have in my head in order to just push you on the bed, hurt you some more the way I love hurting you and the way I know you love being hurt, until I am so close to orgasm that a touch of my fingers combined with your tongue would make me explode.

But no.

“Now, J,” I say, getting up and hooking one of fingers of my left hand in a D-ring of your collar.

“Yes, M?”

I jerk my head sideways, indicating the rope still there on the bed.

“These are not for you, this time.”

You're quiet.

“I am not asking you to dominate me, J.”

You're still quiet and now I think I've blown it. I think you won't be able to do it, either because you aren't able to or because it's a turn off for you or because you don't trust yourself to. Or because you can't even understand what I am talking about.

I move a little closer, and my hip brushes against your groin, your cock still rock hard.

“You. Will. Do. Exactly. And. Only. What. I. Say. When I say it. How I say it.”

My voice is slow and measured, the words coming out in what would be staccato if I picked up the pace a bit.

Your eyes are down now. I let go of the collar and cup your chin in my hand, gently, running my thumb along and between your lips, in the gesture that's become a part of a ritual between us, the tip of you tongue momentarily wet and stiff on my skin.

“Lick it, J. Like a good slut.”

You do, as you did before, sucking and then using your lips and flat tongue on my palm, in between my fingers in those spaces where all my tension, and pain, and desire and excitement focus so much, then across my palm again and down to my wrist.

“Now let go,” I say, even though I don't really want you to stop.

Your breathing is faster again, eyes half-closed, and you drop to your knees obediently when I put my hands on your shoulders.

“Good boy. Remind me who owns you.”

“You do, M.”

“Who owns your slut mouth and your hands and your cock?”

“You do, M. I'm yours.”

“That's my boy.”

“You will do what you are told, won't you, J?” My hand is playing with your hair, your eyes down.

“Yes, M. I will. I will try. It won't be... easy.”

I laugh. It seems odd to have you say that just now, after everything I've put you through, but I understand what you mean. It won't be easy for me either, the jarring clash between giving you the physical means to take control while demanding that you still – more so, even – give it to me. And it will be harder for you, because I know that you make a much more convincing top that I have ever made a sub. Just not with me.

“I trust you. I would not let anybody else do this. But I know you will do it exactly as I want it done.”

“Yes, M.”

“C'mon then. Up you get,” I run my fingers through your hair again, grab a handful, together with your ear and pull you up, before letting go and climbing onto the bed.

You're standing next to it,  looking slightly baffled and a bit unsure, but there is that little smile in the corners of your mouth and I am starting to think it might work after all.  

I sit back against the headboard and pick up a decent length of the rope, roll it into a neat coil and throw it at you, “Tie my wrists to the headboard. Start with the left one. Use secure loops but not too tight. I will tell you if I am uncomfortable.”

You catch the rope and tighten your fingers on it, as if pondering something, then suddenly you're here, holding my hand in yours again. I wriggle down the bed so my head is where I want it to be eventually and I am now laying flat on my back, my left arm semi-extended towards the headboard.

“Kiss my wrist again.”

Mouth on my skin, steaming damp, your tongue touching lightly, your face closer to my hand.

“Up the forearm now.”

Your lips are moving in a slow trail of kisses along the inner surface of my forearm, all the way to the crook of the elbow.

“Lick back down...mmmm.... beautiful. Good boy. That's enough. Get on with the rope now.”

You wrap my wrist with a triple loop of the rope, check that it's not too tight and then fasten it to one of the balusters of the headboard. I pull at the tie, it seems secure but comfortable.

“The other hand now, J,” I hope my voice isn't shaking too much.

I'm getting frightened now, my mind fighting my body's impression that there is something seriously wrong going on. Your hands are tied... your fucking hands are tied and you are just letting it happen... is ringing in my head and reverberating through my body. I am scared. Not turned-on-and-excited-scared, but simply scared, so scared that my voice is on the verge of breaking.

I want to tell you to stop. Now. I want to tell you to untie me. I want to test you - now, now, now, NOW! - to make sure that you would do what you're told when you're told. I want to test it, but I know it's too soon. Too early. I'd blow it if I did it now, so I dampen down my fear, settle myself into the trust, into the faith that I have in you, and in my own ownership  and control.

You keep checking that I am comfortable, talking in a lower, soothing voice and I am getting more relaxed, but it isn't really what I want either, I don't want to slip into a dizzy submissive fog.

I need to assert my power, the power which - if it is to be real, if it means anything at all - is still there – should be still there - even now when my hands are tied. The power that should be more apparent and paradoxically, more visible now that I am physically restrained.

“Push a pillow under my butt. And one under my head.”

You obey, checking again that I am happy with my arrangement, murmuring something low that I can't quite catch. My knees are a little wide, my elevated hips making me feel exposed. I don't really feel comfortable like that – not without my hands free – but I am also turned on, and getting more turned on, with every command you obey, with every minute that passes and the situation doesn't crash around us. I let the underlying arousal wash over me now, swipe away some of the fear and tension, paradoxically clear my mind and focus it.  

“Kneel on the bed to my right. Hands on your knees. Eyes down. Roughly at my chest level.”

I look at you from my position, smiling, a little laugh escaping. You're  above me, and I can't reach out to you, grab you, direct you; not even touch you. For that matter, I can't even reach and touch myself, and god how I want to now, suddenly, when I see your smooth skin and erect cock curving up between your thighs as you kneel next to me.

My hands are gone.

But I have you. Your mouth. Your hands. Your cock.

No, not  yours. Mine.

“Stroke my cock, for me, J. Count twelve strokes and keep them slow.”

You obey, counting as you move your hand, your eyes locking with mine. I am smiling, even though my breathing is faster and yet deeper than normal, even though the tops of my thighs are getting covered with a slick dampness of desire and my lower back is arching just a bit.

“Twelve...” comes out with a gasp, my cock still in your grip.

“Come closer. Here. I want to taste you.”

You get near me, lean over a little, the tip of the cock almost but not quite touching my lips, “Closer!”

You obey, and at a slight turn of my head I can now lick my cock, shiny with the first drops of precum, hot and twitching when I run the tip of my stiff tongue along the bottom side, pressing harder on the frenulum, making little circles in that sensitive spot.

“That's perfect. Don't move now, just hold it there.”

Your breathing is shallow and I can see the muscles in your groin and lower belly flexing, as if you were trying to stop yourself from pushing in. I take the cockhead between my lips and tighten, sucking, my tongue swirling around the top. You moan, your right hand moving towards my head, then stopping half way, landing on the headboard. I turn my head, move my mouth away.

“You're doing well, J. Lick my breasts now. Through the lace. Use your hand on the other one. Gently. No teeth.”

You take a deep breath and start doing just that, your breath hot on my skin through the sheer fabric, your lips and tongue ravenous yet soft on my right nipple, your fingers stroking and tweaking the other one. I want to put my hand on your head, and then I realise that I don't need to, that you are exactly where I want you and doing exactly what I want you to do, and I close my eyes and let out a deep sigh that turns into a moan, making small, guttural noises of encouragement, praise and pleasure as you go.

You're lying next to me, the bound cock brushing against my thigh, my knee bending and pushing between your legs now, rubbing and pressing on that hot, throbbing flesh, the dampness of the precum mixed with saliva drying on my stocking.

“Feel my cunt now, J.”

Your right hand moves down between my legs, bunching the skirt higher, your fingers sliding into my swollen, wet slit, making me gasp and rise my hips towards your touch, move my legs to close them tightly on your hand, grasp it there, then release; your mouth still on my breast.

“Want to taste me?”

“God yes... Please, M...”

“Stand up by the bed and lick your fingers... I want to see you... That's it. That's a good boy. Like that? Do I taste good? Want some more? Want to touch yourself?”

“Fuck.... yes, yes, M... please...”

I let you reach down again and use my juices as lube, watching you stroke my cock, your knees slightly bent, your hips pushing forward as you fuck your hand, picking up the pace as if you were racing towards orgasm.

“STOP. Hands off.”

You groan but obey, again. Perfect.  

“Do you know what I want to do now?”

“I want to slap my cock. And balls. Make you wince. But I can't do it so you will have to do it for me. Hard, boy. Like a god little painslut you are. Ten good slaps.”

It's an odd but exhilarating feeling, to be lying there, spread flat, looking at you from below, unable to enforce my commands with any physical means, and to have you follow them, still. The first slap is loud, making my cock bounce sideways, the second makes you groan and pause.

“I said ten, J. And don't miss the balls.”

You cry out on the last one, your knees bucking under you, my cock twitching above the red-flushed balls bulging above the tie.

“Good boy. Come back here.” I spread my legs wider, bend my knees, place my feet flat on the bed. “Between my thighs. Where you belong.”

You are kneeling there now, your eyes moving from my face to my cunt, slick, hot and open, inches away from my throbbing cock, my clit so hard and erect that it must be showing above my labia.

“Lick me. Each side, then up towards my clit. Flat, slow and soft. No teeth. Make your slut mouth useful.”

You dive in, lapping and licking, your hands under my butt, your whole face buried in my dripping sex, my legs tightening around your head, wrapped around you, now crossed behind your back, pulling you in.

I am very glad I didn't go as far as making you tie my ankles and that thought makes me laugh out loud even through the thickening, sticky cloud of arousal building up as you keep eating me out; and oh my god how perfect your mouth is, everywhere I want it, everywhere I need it, adjusting and responding not just to my words, but my movements, twitches, moans and changing breath patterns; your tongue buried deep inside me, then flicking and circling around my throbbing clit, your lips soft and open, then puckered, kissing and sucking, then licking and tongue fucking me again.

For a moment I lose my awareness of you, all that's left is the glowing, ecstatic ''now'' of waves building inside me, spreading over my whole body from that wet, hot pool of desire you've disappeared in. I think I come then, but I am not sure if I really do because it's not even possible to draw a clear line between the plateau of pleasure I am on and any peaks that might spike up from it, and it doesn't really matter then and there.

You're panting and gasping, I am not sure if it's from lack of air, or arousal, or combination of the two, or the effort it takes to keep going with my cunt rubbed all over your face, my legs tight around your neck. I loosen up and release him from the grip, moving my feet down your back, pushing you up.  

“Get your face up here.”

It's slick with my juices and sweat dampening your hair, your lips swollen, your eyes wide, pupils dilated, mouth half-open, somewhere between a smile and a moan; and I can't help but laugh again, close to overwhelmed by a mixture of joy and lust, high on the moment, on the perfection that we are achieving here, on how well it's working out, on the fact that it is actually working out at all, and on how good it feels.

You kiss me, lightly, my tongue darts out to taste myself on your skin, the musk and brine coating it, making me moan and grasp your lower lip in my teeth, bite harder until you wince and moan, my cock stiff against my body, my legs wrapped around your hips now, my cunt rubbing on your pulsing hardness.

“Kiss my neck, then lick down to my shoulder,” your mouth moves where directed, my moan tracing the wet trail of your tongue, my legs tighter around your waist.

“Bite me.”

You stops, suddenly completely still.

“BITE ME,” I repeat, firm and loud, almost shouting into your ear.

Your teeth close on my skin, gently but noticeably.

“Harder.”

I am aroused enough to find it pleasurable, at the level when I can enjoy the intensity of the caress that borders on pain. But this is just a side effect. This moment is not about this kind of pleasure.

“Harder. Hard enough so it hurts. Harder, I fucking said!”

You stop and start talking in a low, 'normal' voice, dubious, questioning, “M... please... you don't really like it, do you? I don't want to hurt you...”

I am getting annoyed, annoyed enough so I want to slap you, “I said bite me hard, J. Do. What. I. Say. Bitch,” I hiss, even as I feel ridiculous doing that, adopting this language while flat on my back under you, with my hands restrained.

But it works. You obey, your teeth on my shoulder again, tightening until I wince, until I want to cry out. Until I do.

“FUCKING HARDER, SLUT.... Arrrrgh....”

It hurts. It hurts like fuck, and no, I don't like being hurt and yet the satisfaction of making you do it overrides the pain, floods my mind with a wave of arousal that has nothing to do with what you are actually doing but everything to do with making you do it, and maybe even with making myself put up with it, taking the flow of power to another place, a different level yet again.

“Stop.”

It's hard to say it without shrieking, what with your teeth digging into my skin and close to breaking it, maybe even breaking it now; but somehow I manage and you obey in an instant, your head laying still in the crook of my shoulder.

“Look at me, J,” I'm wincing as I say it but the grimace turns into a wide smile of satisfaction when you look at me, supporting yourself on your hands above me, your dark eyes a mixture of concern and something that borders on elation.

“I'm sorry, M,” you mumble quietly and it's all so bizarre that I am laughing again, through the dull pain of the swelling bruise on my shoulder.

I tighten my legs around you and push my hips up, my cock getting yet harder again when I say “Good boy.”

“Now move down there and kneel... let me see you... yess... that's it. Touch my cock for me. Hold it and stroke, slowly. Slowly I said.... get closer... now rub it around my cunt... mmmm....that's it. Feels good?”

The warm, smooth cockhead is sliding along my slit. Every time you pass my clit, I rise my hips towards it, the mounting arousal beautiful, pulsing, almost unbearable.

“Fuck yes M... you feel soooo good.... ohhhh....”

“Slide it in. I want to feel you inside me. Deep. Then stay still.”

You do as told, hard and hot, parting my slippery folds, reaching in, making me gasp with the sudden pleasure, the walls of my cunt contracting on the throbbing flesh.

“Ohhh... M... I'm so close... fuck...”

“Don't move. I know you want to but you will not. And don't come.”

Panting, your whole body shivering and tense with the effort of obeying my order, and I am not sure if the simple sensation of my cunt squeezing and relaxing over the cock that fills it or if it's watching you struggling with your own desire like that, but I am now myself getting lost in all that, my whole body, inside and out, on fire.

I untangle my legs and hook them on your shoulders now, which is not a mean feat considering that I am far from willowy or nimbly athletic, but I want you deeper now. All the way in, and stock still inside me, as long as you can manage. As long as I can make you.

You slide out with a groan, help me adjust and plunge deep back in. It feels like all the mounting desire of your body to thrust, to fuck me, to fuck something, focuses in this one movement, my cock even bigger and harder than it was before, filling me up, touching all the exquisitely pleasurable spots inside.

“Stay still,” I repeat.

You're breathing fast through clenched teeth, your hands under my butt, holding me close, your eyes fixed on my mouth as if it offered some kind of lifeline, then moving to my eyes, locking my dilated gaze, your teeth visibly clenched over your lower lip.

“Fuck... fuck.... ooooh god, M.... I...,” gasping now, breathlessly.

“Stay still,” I repeat, again, my cunt clenching over my pulsing cock, my feet turned somewhat awkwardly to join behind your neck.

A vague thought of 'how long are you going to last like that?' floats through my mind and I am smiling at that, a wide smile, a snarly smile, with an odd quick bite of my own lower lip, spilling into a low laugh that rises from somewhere deep inside my chest, and from lower down between my legs. I push my hips up, trying to get you even deeper, your balls hot and heavy on my ass, the curve of my cock perfect inside.

“You want to fuck me, boy, don't you? It would feel good to thrust and move, in and out, faster and faster, wouldn't it?”

“Yes... god yes... please M... I can't... I can't do it much longer... ohhhhhh....,” you moan again, your eyes fluttering, my cock throbbing, your body shaking.

“Out.”

I unhook my legs and let them drop on the bed, and you slide out, a look of something approaching a relief on your face.

“Move back. Sit on your heels. Knees wide.”

My feet land in your lap, the moisture covering you rubbing dry on the nylon of the stockings, one foot pressing the tip of my cock up towards your belly, the other pushing your balls back. You're panting again, short, broken breaths, head thrown back, your hands on your knees, fingers digging in as if for a distraction.

“Yes, yes, yes, please, M, yesss...”

I rub my right foot along the bottom surface of my cock, harder and faster as I go, all the way from the tightly stretched, precum covered skin on top down to the base and back again, pushing it further towards your flexing belly.

“Now. For me, boy,” comes out of my mouth as a low, rapid whisper and the orgasm spills out of you before I even finish saying it, a warm explosion of thick stickiness all over my toes, a squirt after a squirt, the muscles of your legs and belly twitching as I keep rubbing through the spasms and beyond them, until you start squirming when it becomes too much after your orgasm subsides.

“Untie your junk now and clean me up.”

You pull the bindings off my cock and slide down the end of the bed, your mouth on my cum-covered feet, licking it off, sucking bits of fabric, your tongue busy and obedient even now after you came.

I'm getting impatient. “Enough of this. Bedside table drawer. Now.”

There is a craft knife there and you know what to do, my hands pulling at the restraints to stretch the rope and make it easy to cut. The moment you put the blade back I am sitting up, grabbing the D-ring on your collar again, pulling you closer to me.

“You did well, boy. I loved it,” I kiss your neck just below your left ear, then straighten up. “Now, just a reminder...” my right arm swings casually, a light slap, more a symbolic reassertion than something intended to cause any pain.

But the contact of my fingers and palm with your face is electrifying, a jolt that makes me gasp, swear, breath sharply in through my nose, exhale between clenched, bared teeth, I want to – I NEED to - do it again, harder now, almost but now quite losing control, and one more time, ooooh fuck, my hand slides from your hot cheek up to your ear, grabs it, my fingers in your hair, clawing, both hands now, pushing you down, closer, between my legs, faster, oh my fucking god how I want it, and don't care if you are in your male post-orgasmic slump, I need your lips and tongue there, now, now, now.

Now. Mine.

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Read the full tale:

Before it ends

My eyes are fixed on the exposed side of your neck. I touch you there, running my fingers down to your shoulder. Nails dragging from behind your ear down along the line of the tendon, catching on the clavicle. Again. And again. Not deeply, just teasing. You squirm. I wish they were longer or sharper. Deliberate again. I want to mark you. You are moaning, eyes closed, chest visibly lifting and lowering, long deep breaths. My desire coalesces in my mind.  I want to leave a row of short, parallel cuts on your shoulder. Not very deep, short ones, maybe two inches long each. I want it so much it makes me catch my breath and stop what I'm doing and think of a tool suitable for making a thin, neat, permanent ladder of little scars. One of them maybe a little less neat.

I tell you what’s going through my head, and you gasp, your breath hot and rapid on the damp skin of my wrist, ‘’ Yes. Please do that, M. I want to wear your marks. Permanent ones. I want the cuts. I hope they spill a little too much blood…’’ you’re talking in low voice, almost whispering, but it’s steady, as if you were out of the daze or in a different kind of daze maybe, slow and fluid and focused, and this steady fluidity make me feel floaty. You are fucking me up so much, still, after all this time. I love it.

You open your eyes and look up at me,’’Serrated blade, M?’’

‘’Maybe not as jagged as a cheap steak knife, something finely serrated. What you might slice a tomato with,‘’ you offer

‘’A small, fine metalworking blade,’’ I suggest, partially in jest, partially in earnest, my fingers resting lightly on your shoulder, my tongue running along my upper lip, my cunt throbbing.

This conversation, matter of fact and yet somehow surreal at the same time makes me giggle, seems as it should break the spell but actually doesn’t, makes me realise how comfortable we are here, doing this perverted thing that we do.

I think of your leaving and my leaving, of both of us going back to our respective realities, soon - too soon, and perhaps for good this time, because we never know when it’s going to be for good so it’s better to think this way, it’s better to think that this is all the time we have and that every time must be made as precious as the first time and must be treated as the last time, because it might end up being so.

I think of the time we have left before the fantasy ends and reality reasserts itself, and all that we will have done here will seem like a story told on a perverted erotica blog. And then I think of how much the lines between the fantasy and the real are blurred just now, so much that maybe we don’t quite know which is which and that if you really leave in two days’ time  with a neat row of cuts on your shoulder - one of them perhaps less neat than the others, perhaps left to heal without using butterfly strips to keep the edges together - if you take this mark back to your reality, maybe it will remain blurred forever, the curtain never pulled completely closed, a reminder always there, not just in the neural circuits of your mind but obvious, blatant, palpable in the most literal sense of that overused word, to be felt every time you put your fingers there.

This possibility is making my head spin and my breath speed up in a way that goes far beyond sexual, not that the sexual isn’t there, but it’s morphing into something else, something bigger if just a little lower key, a desire to own you -- or at least that part of you that you have given me -- not just fully but with some illusion of permanence, as symbolic and un-real as these things are.

I’m driven by the same impulse which makes people carve their initials in school desks and in living trees, the same desire that I indulged when I took the sharp little blade of a slightly rust-stained knife to the wind-bent pine tree overlooking the narrows the mainland and the island, with the view of that hill on which the last photo I’d sent you was taken before your arrival here, the same need that drove my request to carve a declaration of your submission in that board that’s now not just sanded and oiled but wet with your sweat, wax and probably quite a few drips of precum and saliva too.

It’s going dark outside but it’s a bright dusk, with pale blue-grey sky and a full moon high and silver above the hills on the other side of the water and, unheard of at this time of the year, it’s snowing. Slow, large flakes sailing slowly down, sliding along invisible air slopes, twirling in vortexes of light from the house’s large plate window.

I leave you there for a minute and return to the workshop, picking up possible tools for what I have in mind. My hands are shaking, just a little bit.

‘’Stand by the window, J. Spread-eagled. Legs wide, palms flat on the glass. Well supported, leaning a little,’’ I launch into instructions as soon as I walk back into the room and although you seem a little thrown by all that, you obey.

‘’Closer. Not as close as to touch glass with your cock,’’ I adjust you, using my words and soon after, my hands, small pushes and pulls to indicate the direction, ‘’Here. Yes. That’s great. Perfect,’’ I run my hands down your sides, then up your outstretched arms, checking the new tensing and flexing of the muscles, the changed way your skin stretches.

‘If anybody came round just now they’d be for a surprise,’’ I snort, my fingers playing with your erection, turning it larger and more rigid. I step away and look. Your body pale, despite the tan, in the low light of the room against the dark that has fallen outside. I switch off the light and now it's just a silhouette, and what seemed to be dark has turned into a purple grey, gently opalescent with the moonlight.

I want to leave you like this, forever, spread-eagled across the window, in the eternal violet charcoal of dusk. I want to keep you like this, forever, in the eternal glass case in the library of my mind. And although some part of you, some version of you is there, just like this, in some version of some reality, it is only a sliver, a lab slice of a symbolic specimen that defies what must be and what is.

I shake my head, almost violently, my hair spilling in a tangle rather than a stylish swish, step back. My palms on your shoulders, fingers moving to meet on your throat, thumbs pressing down, my mouth near your ear ‘’Quiet now. Quiet and still.” You whispermoan a ‘’Yes, M’’ and I start touching you. Methodically. Systematically. As if I was doing everything possible to memorise it all, as if there were obvious and crucial differences between the skin along your shoulder-blade and that covering the tendons of your neck and that over the soft flesh below the ribcage.

The touch varies. I press and stroke. I pinch and scratch. I move my face so close to you that my breath condenses on your skin, blow on you gently or fast, and brush you with my lips. I bite and lick. I leave trails of what remains of my lipstick and saliva and breath, pink grazes and teeth indentations and hickeys.

The cuts come fast and sure, as if out of nowhere, shallow, closer to symbolic nicks than slits designed to leave obvious scars, but there is a spreading net of blood trickles blooming on your back and there is a humming in my head. I take my eyes off you for what’s intended as a split second but ends up much longer.

It’s still snowing. Huge flakes whirling down slow and thick  to settle on the grass, to cushion everything, to muffle time and slow down sounds.

I pull the belt out of the loops of my skirt, double it up in my hand, position myself and take aim. The crack of leather on your butt makes me shiver, as much as your stifled moan, a violent twitch and the way you move your hips in an instinctive flight response to then return to position, your back maybe arched a little more, your knuckles maybe a little whiter on the narrow window frame.

‘’Count.’’

You do, your voice sometimes steady and sure, sometimes breaking, sometimes hardly there, the welts merging together into a greater field of red, hot and tender to my hand when I touch it after the belt is dropped.

‘’Well done, boy,’’ my left hand on your just-belted butt, my right one on your dripping cock, your long moan making my nipples harden against the lace of my bra.

It’s still snowing.

A little later, I lay you down out there, the cold of snow a welcome soothing for your tormented skin, at first, the pink dissolving into dirty green mush under the combined weight of our bodies, I fuck you slow and urgent, deliberate and messy, until we both cry out and come to.

We return inside to tend to the cuts and bruises, to sleep - together this time, the toes of my left foot touching your calf, the fingertips of my left hand nearly-brushing your right one - to wake up to late morning of a pale blue skye, a small, white sun and a huge daytime moon above us, the last night’s snow all gone, to the tidying up of the workshops, to the locking up of the house, to the long drive to the airport.

***


We are standing in the departures, upstairs, just before the security, facing each other, a couple of steps off the main stream of passengers walking past with their plastic bags for liquids and gels, their belts and boots in their hands.

There is a silence around us, a bubble, similar to the one that we stood in, shivering, the first time we met, that day when I slapped him in the middle of the arrivals hall and he dropped to his knees and kissed my feet in fishnet stockings and ridiculously uncomfortable shoes. 

I am wearing old jeans and tattered Converse hi-tops today and neither of us is shivering. But I still reach out to touch his face, my palm on his cheek, my fingers near his ear, my thumb brushing his lips, spreading them apart, briefly running along the damp inside, then withdrawing.

''Fuck. I guess this is it,'' he looks briefly at the ground as he says this, then back at me, our eyes locked gain.

''Fuck. I guess it is,'' I am somewhere between a giggle and tears. 

We embrace, quickly, then he turns away, makes his way to the end of the security queue. 

''Be good for me, J,'' I call to his back. 

He glances at me over his shoulder with a somewhat sad-looking ghost of a smile.

''I will. Endlessly, M.''