Wednesday, October 20, 2010

Stepping off the Path

I think one of the best things about Master’s rigid adherence to routine is when he does make a left turn, changes it up; everything is suddenly filled with sweet surprise. Suddenly I don’t know what to expect.

As I write this I have this thought that the routine, the predictability breeds expectation and on some very basic level the illusion of control. If I know what to expect, I know what to do and if I know what I am supposed to do, I am getting ready for the next expected step in the dance. When I am bent over in the shower, not only am I focused on what I am supposed to be doing at that moment, I am also getting ready for the inevitable tap, the signal to switch position, to spin around and open my mouth.

So when Master steps off the path, the treadmill, and heads off in some unexpected direction, it takes me by surprise, leaves me breathless with uncertainty. I can’t know what to do, can’t know what he expects; I have to pay infinitely close attention to him. All sense of certainty and control magically evaporates.

I know we have been flirting with various ideas of bondage. I have been sanding and painting and attaching various pieces of hardware to my spreader bar. He has been demanding that I wear my collar, wrist and ankle cuffs during everyday activities. He took me to the hardware store and bought a number of snap hooks and dug out some rope and figured out an ingenious way to just hook them to a loop.

But Master is not one to show his hand. And definitely not one to change his ways, and I know better than to even hope for change or have a wish or indulge in expectation. And our day started exactly like every weekend day does. Quiet and coffee, computers and parallel play… him killing monsters… me writing about them. Then the quick, sharp directive comes to change gears, to put on exercise clothing and to come for a cycle ride. All normal… all expected… all safe and predictable.

We get home and I know without needing to think that I will be in the shower soon, bent over or on my knees, waiting the signal to turn and present the other orifice for his pleasure. And there is a certain masochistic pleasure there, the knowledge that he likes it this way and that his likes take precedent, that my need for kink, need for novelty, need for pain and helplessness and humiliation take fourth or fifth or last place in his world. I don’t know if selfishness is the right word… because it rings negatively in my head. He definitely puts himself first but so do I.

All the rituals were there, the stripping of clothing, a brief interlude in the bedroom when he questions why I have two towels… somehow this offends his sensibilities. I guess a person in this house should have only one towel hanging on their hook. This is normal, a constant observation and constant correction… it is the core of control. It is familiar; it is the real rope that binds me to him.

We move to the bathroom, all the same preparations, micromanaged tooth brushing, shaving under his sharp eagle eyes, waiting to enter into the shower after him, careful to stay in my tiny corner while I shampoo, soap and finish shaving. Waiting his touch to let me know when I have permission to move into the water to rinse. I remember I got soap in my eye and stood there all squinched up, waiting. It did not occur to me to tell him that I had soap in my eye. He noticed my face and said in an impatient voice that I could have asked to rinse my face if I had soap in my eye. But that is not part of the dance, me asking for things. I think I would rather stand there with soap in my eye than to step off the path. I am not allowed to step off the path, break tradition or ritual.

His first touch is familiar, the sudden demanding shove down on my shoulders and after a token resistance, a sparkle of mock “make me” in my eyes, I am down on my knees, fluffing him for the next step in the dance, the tap that means stand up and bend over.

But the tap does not come.

He says… SAYS… (you need to know that Master rarely verbalizes during sex) He says, “Stand up.”

I boggle. I stop sucking and my eyes lift up and up and meet his, staring at him in confusion with his cock still in my mouth, not sure if I heard him correctly.

He turns off the water. Now I really don’t know what is going on.

We get out and dry off. He is talking about mundane shit, politics or maybe social issues? For the life of me… I can’t remember. I don’t think I was listening all that closely. I am still trying to figure out what is happening. Trying to guess what is coming next so I will know what I am supposed to do. I have lost my sense of control and I am more than a little uncomfortable.

He does not head downstairs. He wraps the towel around himself and wanders into my room and begins to gather up things… rope… leather collar, wrist and ankle cuffs, spreader bar. He does not speak when he walks down stairs and I follow with wide eyes.

He wordlessly hands me the cuffs and I begin to put them on, fumbling with buckles, distracted because he is taking the rope and tying it to the bed. He puts snaps on it. My hands are up and no longer under my control. He grabs my ankles and snaps the spreader bar between them and with a strong grip and lift, two more clicks and my feet are up attached at the same point as my hands. I am spread wide with my feet fastened down somewhere up over my head. I am rewarded by the sight of my shaved pussy about six inches from my wondering eyes.

Every time I move, there is the rattle and click of stainless steel snaps, I tentatively stretch and struggle but I am well restrained. I could get away if I needed. I can just reach one or two of the snaps with my finger tips, I could just unsnap myself, but the possibility does not occur to me. I have the ability but not the freedom. Master comments that I well and truly fucked.

I can see him, see him peruse the selection of implements of ass destruction, touching, hefting, lifting, swinging. His eyes meet mine and seem alight with sadistic anticipation. He grabs the strap and hits me with it. Crack! It sizzles across my ass. Crack! Crack! I buck and squall. The snaps rattle. He moves up my thighs. It is so close I can feel the wind on my face, my eyelids reflexively blink. He picks up the old cane, the first one we bought and greets it… “Hello, old friend.”

I can see the welts raise up, the white lines that slowly grow pink and then red. Master comments how he likes to strike exactly “There…” as he repeated slashed into the tender crease where thigh meets ass. I blink and blink. I know he won’t hit my face but it is so close. None of the blows are beyond bearing, the intensity manageable and I find myself savoring each new wave of pain, of burn, sting, ache, itch… like a gourmet, tasting, analyzing, luxuriating.

He keeps changing weapons. And I watch… I see… I know what is coming. He picks up the squid and I blurt out a fearful warning, as if he did not already know… “That thing breaks pussies.”

And he grins and drags it between my legs and then taps me threateningly with it a few times and then moves on to floggers and focuses his cruel intentions upon my pussy only inches from my face. I can tell he is moderating his blows but I am spread, open and vulnerable. I can feel the hits right on my clitoris. It sends electric shocks of sharp pain through me and rather than subside, the burn builds and I can feel my clit swell.

He frees my hands and hands me my vibrator. No words, no verbal command, but his expectation is obvious. It always is intense, that first rush of contact with the buzzing end of that little machine. It always makes me shudder and whimper. I think he likes that. His eyes light up with approval. He digs around in the toy bag and returns with the largest dildo… a silly great big pink thing that vibrates and soon I am filled to bursting, new waves of sensation rising up from inside. He tips it sharply up, deliberately searching for my g-spot. I think my eyes must be crossed, unfocused, my whole body tense and trembling with the immense orgasm I can feel building within me.

Right as I come, I open my eyes and meet his gaze. Right before I come, there is that precious moment of clear, pure, intense pleasure, that sudden exponential build of indescribable sensation, and I stare deep into his eyes, suddenly still, perfectly still, a deep gasp of wonder as I exhale and relax. All the struggle is over, I know I don’t have to focus anymore, try anymore… I could not stop it now if I tried. In that briefest of eternities I am calm, euphoric, infinitely in love. I am there, standing in the path of raging flood, fully aware that I am going to become engulfed.

And then it is here. It crashes into me, sweeps over me, through me, picks me up and shakes me. I am no longer in control of my body, my voice. I cry out and convulse. The sounds of the metal clips are loud in my ears. I fight my bonds. But I know he wants more, demands more, will not accept anything less than all I can give. I do not drop the vibrator. It comes in waves… crashing peaks that only seem to build and build. And the valleys between the peaks are filled with all the clarity and pure pleasure that is that perfect moment immediately before I come. Over and over I pause and sigh, meet his eyes and connect and before it takes me away again.

He only relents when I drop the vibrator, finally spent, drained, used up. My legs are starting to ache from being bound over my head and I tense and pull against the rope and snaps holding them to the spreader bar, forcing blood to flow. He reaches up and unsnaps the bar of wood holding my legs apart and presses down on the backs of my thighs, pushing my legs down and up even further as he enters me.

My mind is clear and I watch him as shadows of pleasure chase across his face, his lips tighten and pull back. His brows are furrowed in a frown of intense concentration. His hands are hard, gripping, his fingertips digging into my skin. I watch with awestruck, fascinated eyes. He moves slowly, deliberately. I can see how each movement, each thrust, each slow slide out and back in, sends waves of pleasure through him. I reach down, touch him where our bodies join, slide my fingers around the hot, wet, slickness, and am rewarded by a soft groan. His whole body shudders and flexes, little trembling spasms shake through him as he comes.

Master unsnaps the last of the hooks holding me down and I finally can straighten my legs, turn and curl up on my side. I lay there for many minutes, empty of thought, floating, warm, soft… savoring the surprise… the sweetness of stepping off the path.

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