Tension. I kneel on the bed,
My eyes kept firmly downcast,
As you lay out implements in a
line. Choose, you say. With
trembling finger, I point to the
flogger. Purple and black, soft
suede strands. A toy that can sting
or stroke. You give a small huff
of laughter, and remove the flogger
from the line up. I glance up,
surprised, and catch a glimpse at
your amused smirk before you raise
an unimpressed eyebrow. Eyes.
It’s a command, spat out with
displeasure. I don’t have permission
to look at you. I’m sorry, Sir. My
words are a mumble. A whisper.
You make me wait, leave the
Possibility of punishment
hovering for an endless moment,
then tell me, choose again. I
understand the game now, I think.
I point to the cane. My least
favorite of all of your tools. Two
more, you say. I pick the vampire
paddle – something new I haven’t
yet been brace enough to try – and
the dragon’s tongue, that I know
feels like fire. Good girl. I bask
in that for an instant before
the rest of the toys disappear.
Outmaneuvered. I should have
known: the rules can change.
I hear you chuckle as I keep my eyes
off your face and on my future.
My pulse thuds in my chest, and in