Touch. It's about ownership. This is my flesh,
my skin to mark, my body to take. A stroke
across your hip, a glide over your back. Pinching
your nipple to say, are you paying attention?
The hand around your throat reminds you
that you are fragile class and he is a club.
Softness at first. Learning you; relearning you.
Gentling you, like you are a skittish mare.
The scene is a coil that will wind tighter and tighter,
And this is the first twist. The beginning.
We move on from there to the harshness. A fist
in your hair, twisting tight. A slap of your ass,
a prelude of what's to cum. Perhaps he'll position you.
Head back, back arched, ass presented. Muscles
strain. It's uncomfortable. How long can you hold it?
Not long enough. Never long enough. That's the point.
It's a reason to punish you. The first notes of a song,
the prelude to the dance. Winding the coil.
Building the tension. Focusing your mind.
Attuning all of your senses to him. Where is he?
What is he doing? What's to come? The wait.
The anticipation. When the pain finally comes
it's almost a relief. You know this part. You know
how to endure. How to breathe, how to take the pain
And mold it into a gift. How to give in to it. Be it.
Surrender. You'll be rewarded for it. Choked by it,
fucked by it. Pulled this way and that. A plaything.
A toy. Handled and manhandled. Touched,
to the very depth of you.