It began like any other game.
She had read his words. The heady mix of romance, ropes and respect. Of dominance, decadence and desire. Of longing, lust and leather. Of sex, service and submission. Of poetry, pain and pleasure.
It was an attractive, compelling and perhaps dangerous drug.
Yet she knew she could handle it. The geographic distance would keep her safe. The lack of a physical connection would be an antidote to its power. The absence of the carnal would diminish its dominion.
She placed the collar about her throat. She could feel the urgent pulse in her neck whispering a warning. She smiled bravely into the eye of the camera.
She could control it.
But now she aches. A deep, persistent hunger that cannot be satisfied by fingers or phallus.
The geographic distance has become her prison, the lack of physical connection is her torturer, the absence of the carnal is the rack upon which her yearning body is stretched day and night. She wants him.
She will do everything he instructs, and more. Always more. Yet it will never be enough. Not for her.
It began like any other addiction,
© the author writing as Romantic Dominant
I found this in my considerable pile of writings while looking for something else. It feels as relevant as the day it was written.
Painting by William Oxer