What you do for me

My imagination apparently has a mind of its own… In other news, my post On Christopher: Fragments was featured on Fleshbot’s Sex blog roundup: Caged Heat a little while ago

You’re face down on my bed. I don’t have anything to tie your wrists with, but you immobilize your hands, without me asking, by shoving them under the pillow.

“Hold on a minute. Don’t move.”

“Yes, Mistress.”

I snicker – the words sound so much cheesier spoken than typed, but they cause pleasure to thrum through me regardless.

I take my time and roam around the room. I make sure you can hear all my movements. The thud of my dresser drawer opening, the rattle of the belt buckle. You can’t see. You don’t know exactly what’s going to happen to you, and I don’t want you to. I want you to hear just enough to titillate. To keep you wondering.

I also want to stall for time. Standing naked next to the bed, belt in hand, glasses on so I can see what I’m doing and hair piled haphazardly on my head to keep it out of the way, I feel more than a little nervous.

“What do you want to do to me?” you asked. Before this started.

“I want you to close your eyes, I want to tie your hands behind your back and hit you. Hurt you. And after that perhaps fuck you,” I answered.

But what if, now, you decide you don’t want this?

I start out gentle, climbing up to straddle you and caress your shoulders and back with my hands. I scratch over your back too. My nails leave pretty pink marks.

After a while I climb off and pick up the belt. I fold it in two and run it lightly over your back, your legs. Like I’m introducing you: Christopher, meet leather belt. Leather belt, meet Christopher.

Then I bring it back over my shoulder.

Thwap. The belt licks sharply across your ass and a satisfying red welt blushes its way over your skin. You tense and suck in your breath.

I space my strikes far apart, running my other hand soothingly over your body at intervals, groping you occasionally. The sounds we make are stark against the otherwise silent room: the leather hitting your skin, the hiss as it cuts through the air, your moans when I touch you.

I am a curiously coiled mess of desires. I want you to feel good. More than that – I want to take you to worlds of sensation you’ve never even imagined. But at the same time I want to protect you, take care of you.

I could do this for hours. Striking and soothing; jerking you from pain to comfort and back again. But not now – now is a beginning and I don’t want to push you too far. So finally I let the belt drop and leisurely kiss your shoulders and the back of your neck. I take the lube off my desk, loudly pop the cap and squeeze it over my fingers. You’re moaning now, raising yourself onto your hands and knees. I get behind you. I should probably say something about not giving you permission to move, but I’m too distracted by your spread legs and spread asscheeks and by the way your body curves.

Slowly, I push into you and bring my other hand around to grab your cock. You’re moaning now. Thrusting back and forth between my hands. I’m twisting, curling my finger and then adding a second, loving the way you feel inside.

You don’t last long. Soon, you’re crying out, coming onto my sheets.

Afterwards, when we’re both sitting (still naked) on my bed, I rain kisses over your face, crawl into your arms and murmer thank you into your chest.

(Implied: thank you for doing this for me.)

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