February 22, 2008
Fucktoy


With the blindfold over my eyes and the ball gag in my mouth, I find the smell of leather and pussy is inescapable.

My arms are bound in thick white rope Jeannie-style: before my chest and under my boobs. I look like I just have to nod my head and blink to make my wish come true, but perhaps I already have and it already is.

My lover has piled pillows pasha-high on the bed. I am unceremoniously bent over them; my chin is propped up on my rope-bound wrists and my ass, which I cannot see, which I must imagine, forced as I am in this nose-down, coccyx-up posture, a position that not so much suggests my submission as it enforces it, my imagined ass flowers large and glowing, a hot-house blossom, large and mysterious and faintly dangerous. My ass, exposed as it is to My lover’s eyes and my fecund imagination, embodies both fascination and revulsion.

If my lover has unceremoniously pushed me, bound, blinded and later gagged, over the pasha pillows, she has chosen to lay her tools methodically next to me. She all but uses a t-square. Precise parallel lines separate the flogger, the spanker, the hairbrush. My lover appreciates linear order. She adores my curves, those florid lines that limn my verging on obscene body, but her love of meticulous rigidity defines her soul.

The bed, then, as she has arranged it, is a yin/yang of chaos and order, of my tortuous body and her implements of pleasurable torture.

I am getting spanked. I asked for it. I have no one but myself to blame. I remind myself of this fact as some implement zings! pops! and swats! radiating a zippy-poppy heat on my ass. (This pop-pause-pfatt of pain, I would learn later, was caused by the spanker.) I don’t need to remind myself of anything as my lover flogs me. The flogger sweeps, falls, thuds like fat summer raindrops. It feels like dry liquid pleasure. I need not remind myself of anything while I’m flogged; I need not think at all.

The other pieces, though, those cause me sharp inhales of breath, like the sound that a knife makes when it cuts through something firm and crisp like a green apple. I take quick apple breaths when My lover hits me with the spanker and the hair brush. She strikes me in rapid accelerated beats, like a kitschy drum solo, like a machine gun on speed, like an engine moving from first to third gear. I tell myself I asked for it. I feel my ass muscles involuntarily tightening under each swat. I feel like a pony.

My lover shoves a towel under my knees. Vaguely I wonder why. I suppose I’m getting wet. Later, she’ll tell me that as she spanked me, I dripped wet viscous stalactites from my pussy onto the bed. I don’t remember feeling turned on. I only remember the vicious swats, the leather thuds, the blissful benediction of the flogger’s leather rain. I don’t remember feeling hott, only bothered.

“When I do this to you,” my lover says from behind me, “I just want to fuck you like an animal. You look like my fucktoy.” She pauses. “It’s hard to control myself.”

There on the bed, propped on pillows, rope biting into my wrists, drooling both fore and aft, I wonder why she bothers at all.

With the blindfold on my eyes and the gag in my mouth, all I can do is smell pussy.


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