In my now continuing tradition of combining blog posts with novel writing, I’m going to provide another kinky fantasy vignette for you on my way to Book Three. Might as well hatch two creative birds with one egg. (Don’t you hate the “killing two birds” image? I’ve never heard of twin birds in one egg, come to think of it; why not? Okay, I just looked it up. Apparently they do occur – think of double-yolked eggs -- but there’s not enough room for both to develop so either only one hatches or none. There’s your fact for the day. But I digress.)
What turns me on today? As always, the idea of a man imposing his will on a woman, when she has essentially agreed to such imposition in advance. Agreed more or less, and in general rather than in any specific particulars. The antithesis of topping from below. Her flesh as his plaything. Her emotions, her sensations, her suffering as his toy.
If you need visible, openly expressed love to accompany this, stop reading now. Love, or at least basic caring are there under the surface; take my word for it. But if the power’s not real, then the frisson isn’t there; not for me. Fear comes from genuine power, not game-playing. Treating someone like an object more or less rules out romance, for that scene at least. And if you want what happens to be “fair,” look elsewhere. D/s – my version at least – isn’t made to be fair.
I actually wrote this a while back, thinking about two people sharing their fantasies. Two people who want to engage in d/s but who aren’t there yet.
You want to know my fantasies, do you? You’re sure? And do I want to tell them to you? My private, scary, absolutely secret fantasies that I’ve held protected all these years?
You asked if I trust you. Do I? Not to turn away from me, if my thoughts are weirder than your own? I don’t know. I think I do. But what will be going on behind your eyes?
All right. I’ll take a leap. What the hell. It’s a blind leap, because really, what do I know about what goes on in your skull? I’ll have to trust those arms of yours; that they can catch me and hold me tight. Whatever I am.
It starts with a sensation. A hand around my wrist. I’ve got narrow wrists, and the hand is big, and very strong. My hand twists, but can’t begin to break its grip. My other hand tries to help, and is caught in its turn. Both my arms are twisted behind my back, almost to the point of pain.
“Behave,” says a voice. A deep voice. Both my wrists are in one hand now, pulled up high on my back. I try to wriggle out, but pain stops me. I can feel the straps wrapping around my wrists, pulling my elbows toward each other behind my back. Small yanks, knots being pulled tight. I can’t move my arms. A hand keeps my bound forearms in its grip, while another hand, warm and heavy, takes each bare thrust-out breast in turn, and squeezes. I can feel your erection pressing my hip.
“Back of the couch.” The hands are guiding me now; I twist away and stumble, but they have me by the upper arms.
“Yes. Over the couch, now.”
“Please! I’m sorry! You don’t have to –“
The back of the couch is against my knees, the front of my thighs. A hand presses me over. Jackknifed, I’m staring at the red weave, the tiny flecks of yellow, the indentation in the cushion where minutes before I sat with a book. Before I’d snarled about whose turn it was to do the bills.
This is going to hurt. My breathing shallows in apprehension. My ass cheeks try to cringe; but they’re exposed and beyond rescue. I’m straining against the hand holding me down, thighs trembling and clenching around my slick core.
God, I need this. God, I’m scared.
Leather snaps, making me jump. A sting, and another, and another, each one just bearable. The pain is building, but I’m still outside it. Then you accelerate, and now I’m sucking in breath with a hiss at each blow, and now I’m yelling, and then I’m crying. The leather tails keep falling, and I’m there to meet them. And when the whipping stops and you slide inside me I know what I am, and what I need, and who you are. The world has a centre, and we’ve found it.
Now while I can say that you have to take my version of d/s or leave it, I’ve had so many reviews that say my books go too far that uncertainty creeps in. (Latest one is today; see Amazon.) I never saw Maia as obliterated, but half the book’s readers see her that way. So what do you think? Can I find somewhere to land?