She touches my face
She explores the lines, trying to smooth out the years with her finger tips. She navigates a tender path through the roots of my hair, across the slight pulse in my temple, along the edge of my jaw, to my lips. She presses silence upon them.
Standing before me she slips out of her clothes, letting her dress fall like a quiet creature at her feet. Her skin is pale and sublime. She is fresh, newly-minted, She is brave and solemn, nervous and certain. Her naked body seems more exposed than nudity normally allows.
Her wrists are offered up like sacrifice.
She closes her eyes as I buckle a cuff around each of them. The smell of leather is as pungent as incense. I bend her over the unforgiving, heavy, oak table. Its edge inscribes a thin, straight line across the smooth flesh of her sweetly curved hips and flat belly. I spread her legs and secure her ankles.
When I have finished with the rope she cannot move.
I slowly run the loop at the tip of my antique riding crop down her spine. traversing the peachy mound of her unmarked, virgin buttocks and gently gliding over the back of her legs, The return journey traces a path up her inner thighs, teases her swollen, glistening sex, and lingers at the tight puckered ring of her anus.
She shivers slightly, and sighs.
The only sound in the room is the faint hiss and flare of the flickering candles.
‘No mercy.’ She murmurs quietly. It is a request, a plea, and a prayer.
‘No mercy.’ I repeat.
There is an almost imperceptible nod of her head.
She gasps as the first stroke lands, an unholy and cruel assault on such pure, tender and perfect young skin. I raise the whip again.
For the second, third, fifth, tenth time.
She cries out. A moan and a sob.
The night has only just begun.
© the author writing as Romantic Dominant
Photograph stolen from philu