Muse The Blade
Hand holds the handle.
Cold Steel excites the blood.
The expectant body
relishes the rush.
Of a simple touch.
The edge moves,
Not by hand but feeling.
The artist understands,
The careful undertaking,
that will soon unfold.
Cold,
is the edge,
as it snakes across
soft flesh.
Weaving subconscious
patterns.
the sigils of lust,
written with the blade.
a feeling of descendant overwhelms the senses as eyes adjust to total darkness fifteen minutes of open eyes in this restricting environment creates an altered state of consciousness as the mind crates images in the void. Images that can be manipulated a hyper reality created in the subconscious the senses responce is hightend feelings of touch increase with intensity as the mind takes over
The spider gag had been inserted some time ago but time gets lost in situations such as these. Her mouth had gone dry but she was now drooling, the textures didn't relate to one another.
Her hands, cuffed to the pipe work, uncomfortabley ached, the shorted chain meant it was impossible to find a position that was comfortable. The Mind-fold kept altering her perception of reality, drawing her deeper into a tranceant state. There was pleasure in that at least. The almost dissent muffled voices of the gathering comforted her, it was the same feeling she had as a child when her parents had people round and she was in bed the coyness of friendship.
Another feeling began to take grip of her. One she had been expecting, the sudden building up of desperation the almost uncontrollable need to pee. It was overwhelming. Sir had made her wear her best underwear that morning and now it dawned on her why. His words resounding through her head " If I come up and you've wet yourself..." She hadn't known about the effect of Dandelion tea....she understood it now to be diuretic. She tried to hold it in crossing, folding, wriggling her legs. It was useless a warm steady stream flowed out of her, she went bright red.
They At Play
The single tale slivers twisting towards its target, its tongue tearing.
Before licking soft flesh. The scream is more pleasure than pain.
A red raw welt joined the others.
Hands grip the top of crossed wood in expectation
but what is felt is the gentle sharp sting of a pin wheel.
As it slides with artistic precision, around erogenous zones.
Dopamine levels rise sending them both into trance.
This is their meditation.
From pinwheels to ball handle floggers.
Hands dance rhythmically painting patterned marks.
The unexpected change incites flight.
Hands undo shackles.
A body is carried, to a soft safe bed.
Bound with silk rope.
Hands stroke inner thighs as a clamps are attached to nipples.
A passionate kiss.
The expectant orgasm denied as lips cease to kiss.
They move together bound by trust.
Into the abyss
of climax.