She is hungry. I see it, feel it coursing in the air around her and leaping towards me. Unplanned desire, there are no toys here in my room. I look for the one possibility and offer her my two inch black leather belt. This is all there is...all except her own tools of passion and pain. Her teeth sharp as the tiger that now prowls my room. Her nails the tiger's claws tracing upon my skin. She takes the belt, lays it upon the soft, white comforter and quietly directs me to bend over the bed.
My arms are spread wide, directly out from my body. My palms face down as I turn my head towards the top of the bed. I hear the sound of my knife pulled from its leather. A knife kept sharp and ready for use...as tool, as eating utensil, as weapon of attack or defense. This knife I wore at my side for so many months that it became an extension of my own body as I soldiered in a far off hostile land. This knife full of my strength and being.
The cold blade takes my breath with its sudden application to the skin on the back of my neck. She turns it, from flat to edge and lifts it away till the curve of the point connects with my skin. Slowly, the blade is dragged from the tip of my spine to the base of my back.
"Don't move."
I struggle with my senses to prevent the arching of my back. Stop the involuntary shudder as the blade's point touches the pressure points of my lower back where the slightest finger push will ignite a visceral response. I know how sharp this blade is. I know that it will slice through skin with barely the force that types these words. I struggle for control even while I submit to the desire of this Tiger stalking her prey upon my back. I feel the resistance of steel dragged through skin.
She continues to cut through me, if not through skin and sinew; through time and place, through spirit and reality. There is nothing save this blade, Her, and my submission to the Tiger's hunger.
She continues. I feel the welts, rising as my throat opens with escaping moans of desire and despair. Her hand, ever so lightly, rest upon my bare shoulder. A reminder, a warning....a comfort. The cool touch of her hand upon my hot skin a touchstone I return to after each tremble is defeated, each moan is ripped from me.
"Face me." Her voice soft, ringed with its own steel.
I stand. I return her gaze, full on. She wants this, does not seek the false honoring of dropped eyes but expects me to meet her penetrating contact and open my soul even as I open my body to her. She sees me, sees into me, sees who I am.
The kiss is demanding, deliberate, desire calling that refuses to allow my answer. I chase its call only to feel the point of the blade upon my bare chest. My eyes stay locked in the embrace of her gaze. Her voice soft and slow, she tells me of her hunger. Her desire to taste the very life running though me. The blade sharp, penetrating, I am convinced as it is pulled through me. She drops her head, quickly, and sucks. Then again, the blade sharp in its bite, is drawn across my skin. She feeds again. I stand, without moving, my hands free at my side.
"Turn around." Her hand then presses against my shoulder again, and I lay myself down upon the bed. My arms form a cross of my body as my palms press into the soft comforter. I hear the knife returned to its leather and the quiet rustle of the cotton comforter as the leather belt is taken up.
Silence.
The first blow rips through me. Sharp, it tears the breath from me and I scream with its suddenness. My one shoulder turns as my head whips to the other side. My hands remain still against the cloth. I seek my breath, my mind crying while the voice of reason within me counsels that if I can only find my breath and keep to its own cadence, I can withstand the pain she gives to me now.
She waits. Just as I find the rhythm she strikes, denying me its path through the pain. She beats me hard, without quarter. She rains blow upon blow upon me. Each one tears a hole into my body, ripping me open and I cry out. I scream. Yet, I remain, bound by only her desire and my willingness to please her.
The dog barks. High, fast barks punctuated with a deep growl. The pup, not really for she is more than two years old now, has never witnessed such acts perpetrated upon me, her provider and Alpha. I hear the pup's weight bounced upon the floor and her growl and instantly respond to this threat to the scene and to the Beast who has claimed me as her own. This Beast who beats upon me is real, yet so are the teeth of this dog beside the bed. Submission abdicated in the instant of the threat.
The puppy wants to play. We laugh and return to our own play.
Her hand rests again, light as ever, upon my shoulder. I fall into its touch, relaxing, relinquishing even as more blows fall upon me I feel my body opening to her, widening, deepening, releasing. My skin her canvas to paint with weal and welt.
The dog growls and barks again. The beast strikes and the puppy wants to play. We laugh, even as a question unspoken hangs in the air. How will we continue with this pup that wants attention?
The beast is still hungry. I look into her eyes and then without thought, unbidden, I slide from the bed to her feet. I kneel, my head against her leg, my face upon her soft, silken skin. One hand rests upon the floor while the other lightly wraps around her leg. Her hand caresses my head while the other rests the belt against my back beneath her.
She strikes. Sudden, searing the leather bites again into my back. My head arches, I cry out, I fall slightly more towards the floor yet my face remains upon the softness of her leg. Again, and again, she tears my flesh with the wailing leather.
I feel myself give in to her, my back spreading open, my body breathing in the biting pain of the belt in her hand. I relax into her.
Her words are soft, soothing as the coolness of her hand upon my face.
"Six more. Six more, I want you to take for me."
I cry out in anguish. I can not take six more. I can not take even one more my mind demands of my common sense. My body waits, while my mind cries its despairing thought. The words remain unsaid, unspoken, unrealized as the first blow wails into me. The force pushing me downward. I rebound the few inches I have been pushed just as the second blow makes contact. The voice crying out is not my own. I am seperate, there is nothing save my breath and its loss as even it is ripped from me with the succeeding strikes of the leather in her hand. I cry with the pain as she rips me from myself.
Then, it is over. As quickly as the pain rained down, she is there, pulling me into her. I curl into her protection, her strength, her embrace. Soft words tell me of her pleasure, her pride, her love for me and the honoring of the pain I have taken for her. In these moments of searing leather and blade eating through my skin, I have been willing, bound only by her power and her passion.
I am hers.
Drayke
©copyright Drayke 2001
