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Questing4Aldonza -> He Is Hers (8/8/2004 3:17:10 AM)
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For Lady Angel,
He is Hers.
As if buffeted by the beating of unseen wings, all the candles in the room sputter in unison; shadows writhing sinuously upon the walls.
The boy hangs in the center of the room by his arms. Only the balls of his feet can reach the cold hard floor and every muscle in his body is stretched to a quivering tautness. His skin takes on a dewy sheen as the first drops of perspiration rise across his body.
The leather straps of the cruel harness are cinched tight across his skull; blindfold cutting off his sight, ring gag forcing his mouth into an uncloseable, vulnerable "O". A thick cloud of lilac-scent hovers 'round his head, flooding his nostrils with each gusting breath, making him dizzy, swooning, stupid. His head lolls against his arm and he makes a dreamy, moaning sound.
Reclining in her chair, she finishes the last of her wine and masturbates idly, examining her prize.
He is trying hard not to move, lest the weights dangling at the end of the parachute spreader start to sway, but with each passing moment, a slow steady burn is building deep in the tissues of his overextended frame.
A more urgent, plaintive moan rises up from the back of his throat and his knees buckle. There is a soft clank of chains above and a faint tinkle of smaller links below.
She sets her glass aside and takes up her whip. Rising, she saunters towards him. His head rears up as the click of her heels grows inexorably closer.
She pauses in front of him, bemused by the bird-like way his head jerks from side to side, straining to hear some rumor of her, nostrils flaring trying to smell her through the sensual candle-borne vapors.
She blows across his chest and he shudders, whimpering anxiously. She runs her tongue across his flesh, tasting him; and sticks her sticky fingers in his open mouth to return the favor. He flinches initially at the invasion, but grunts with animalistic delight as she smears her fingers over his quavering tongue allowing him to partake of her arousal.
Just as quickly, she pulls her hand away. He grunts, trying to follow, to steal one last hint of her flavor, but with a click click click, she is moving around him, circling him.
She looks at his back, his buttocks. Already tense, he visibly tightens further, knowing what is coming next, dreading it.
But he cannot get away. He is Hers.
Her arm flies through the air and leather meets flesh like a clap of thunder. He gives a guttural cry of pain and tries to hop away, heedless of the weights as they swing.
His flesh turns red, a long crimson streak, and she is pleased. She cracks the whip against him again and again.
In the flickering candlelight, her boy dances.
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