Indecipherable Scrawlings

I watch goosebumps slowly spread across her skin.  The silken sheets doing nothing to keep her body warm, bare as it was for me in all its naked glory.  The softly rumbling air conditioner set to max admittedly might not help.  As it was sending out waves of cold air that caressed skin flushed with the heat of excitement.  The four point restraints grown as their tight grip is tested, limbs flexing against an iron grip.  Her head moves from side to side, the thick black band of the scarf helping the blindfold hide her eyes.  Chopin drifts out of the head set clamped over her ears, something light yet deafening all the same.

I smile to myself, I'd taken away her senses.  Reducing her world to that burning skin, suddenly more alive than it has ever been.  The brain searching the only sensory input left to it in search of a threat.  Parsing over touch.  Making her painfully aware of the passage of each breath of cold air.  The exquisite smoothness of the sheets beneath her.  The flick of a feather across her nipple.

She gasps.  Her entire body straining towards the flickering touch.  A soft half-felt thing that dances across her body.  Swishing across her nose.  Sliding along her inner thigh.  Ticking her little toe.  One touch breeding a hundred other imagined echoes that jolt her body until the next true caress.  I puppet her into a dance set to the music of building passion.  A quick flick of my thumb conjures a flame from my lighter.  The remote and small heat so sudden that she yelps in surprise.  Fingernails glance against her inner thigh.  Hot breath flows across her neck.  The world expanding as I add input, drawing her into a world of my creation.

Now where did I put that vibe?

Once upon a time in merry old England there was a terrible highwayman who terrorized any who dared to take to the roads.  He robbed from the rich, he gave the poor bruises for having nothing worth stealing, and eventually he was captured.  Needless to say the entire countryside turned out for his hanging.  Dejected, bruised and broken the highway man was lead to the gallows where his dead eyes slowly surveyed the baying crowd.  Yet as he reached the edge of the crowd light rekindled in his eyes.

Standing straight he stepped forward and demanded to deliver his last words.  At the hangman's nod the highwayman implored to crowd to remember he was from a small village raised in a thatched cottage, that his father was a tanner of mediocre skill, and his mother one legged.  On and on he relayed the details of his life and the hangman's patience grew thin.  In the middle of the a tale of the highwayman's amorous pursuit of Bessie, either the milk maid or the source of her produce, the hangman snapped.

"Is there any point to this diatribe?"  He snarled

"No."  The highwayman grinned back.

"Then why have you been blathering on?"  The hangman wanted to know.

"I noticed that storm cloud on its way,"  The highwayman said helpfully, "And I wanted to make sure you all get drenched."

I enjoy metaphors.  I feel they help put things in perspective like...well, you get what I am driving out.  So its hardly surprising I have a metaphor I drag out whenever I am asked to explain my view on what a Dom/sub relationship is like.

As the title hints I compare it to the creation of art, specifically a painting.  Two things are necessary a painter, the Dominant, and a canvas, the submissive.  Without the other one is unfinished and the other is a crazy, starving figure smeared with odd streaks of color and possessed of a tenuous grasp on reality.  Together they can create something wonderful and timeless.  It may seems the painter has all the power, that they can simply impose their vision on the canvas but its not true.  The boundaries of the canvas define the limits of that visions and its composition guides what kinds of paints can be successfully applied.  It is only with full and harmonious understanding on both parts that anything good can come.

Not exactly perfect, but I think it covers the basics quite well.

The air is heavy with musk.  Forced into nostrils flared open by hard plastic that helps you resemble the succulent pig you are.  Trailing cords joining behind your head and moving down your glistening back to the cold steel hook resting inside you.  Supported on shaking hands and knees you gulp fresh air and as my rough fingers move gently through your hair.  My grip tightens pulling you down, filling your sense with your partner's hungry sex. The movement pulls the cord tight.  That unyielding metal hook driving a cold ball deep into your bowels as you carefully lick at the sharp, sweet juices mixing with the saltier taste of my precum. My grip forcing you down harder as I pump in and out of the pussy I loudly proclaim to be superior to yours. Then when the pain is almost unbearable you feel yourself yanked up, your open and gaping mouth suddenly filled with cock covered in her drippings. All you can hear over your own gagging is my contented rumble, "but you have such a sweet throat."

Leaving you gasping for breath in the brief moments you mouth is empty and nostrils not filled with the tickling strands of my pubes. Where just a moment ago your ass had been on fire you now feel your lungs burning. Nearly distracting you from the tongue playing lazily along your pussy and the fingers spreading your cheeks ever wider.

There's a word of command you don't hear and suddenly all your holes are filled. Cold plastic works around the tongue assaulting you and into your hole. Vibrations bounce off the hook and you feel your entire hip begin to shake. Your knees wobble as the lazy tongue begins a ferocious assault on your eager clit. You try to call out but only hum around my cock. One hand leaves your head and begins yanking on the hook rope, forcing the ball deeper as you try to expel it. Forming a rough rhythm with the vibe being carelessly plunged in and out of you.
 
Over your strangled scream you hear me again, "I know what you want slut"
 
I say this as I force my dick all the way into you
 
"I know what you need" I grunt
 
"And and I want you to..." another violent thrust punctuates these words.
 
"Cum!" I growl out as my seed spray down your throat.

I was talking to a friend whom recently learned about my social proclivities and was understandably curious.  One night after we'd shared a few beers he told me he couldn't see me as a Dom.  I smile too much, it makes my face seem kind he insisted.  This of course made me laugh and confused him, so I explained.

Imagine, I told him, being pinned against the wall.  An arm as unmovable as the cold wall behind you holding you as calloused fingers slowly tighten around your throat.  Your racing pulse pushing feebly back against an enclosing vise as you gasp for ever more precious air.  Then looking down along that arm to find my smiling and unperturbed face.  A face uncaring for your gasps, merely wearing the placid expression of one mildly enjoying some half-clever joke.  Smiling in a manner to suggest that completing my squeeze and crushing your windpipe will put no more damper on my day than a passing rain shower.

That I hypothesized to him is more terrifying than any grim face.  Judging by how he's stopped asking me questions he agrees.  Perhaps I shouldn't have been grinning at him while explaining...