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She Lies Beneath Me
By Toran
She
lies beneath me, my Tracie, my pet. I’ve
swung my leg over her sweetly tied body so now I straddle her tummy, my knees
supporting my weight. My dick is leaving
a trail of its pre-cum across her skin and I softly rub it into her belly like
hand cream. She’s looking at me as I
turn my attention to her face and our eyes meet. God, I almost fall into her then.
We’re
dancing now, as if we were the only ones on the dance floor and the spotlight
shown from above. Just
us – the only part of the world that matters. As I look into her brown eyes framed by
delicate brown eyebrows, it is as if we are melted together by an arc of
electricity that would scald our souls were we not careful.
She
trusts me. I break her gaze long enough
to remember the crop in my hand. Why do
I want to hurt her now? When she’s
proven her submission and trust to me again and again – this time by allowing
my ropes to hold her, as they’ve held her before and will in the future? When she’s peeked into my soul and not run
away? When she’s crossed her hands
behind her back and given me that little smile, with eyes bright and sharp and
yielding?
I know
she draws from me what she wants – she takes my power, by submitting to me
completely, body and heart, she has taken power from me and this strengthens
her – makes her more whole than before when she was unbound. Like a security blanket that keeps her warm
from the cold, I sense that my ropes, my attention, my need to have her my way
– that warms her from an uncaring, cold world.
While we dance, while I tie her and she submits as my pet, the world has
changed – now there is urgency, now there is purpose, now there is love. Like an itch that won’t go away, we scratch
each other’s backs, while at the same time, tie each other together tighter
until we are one.
But
why do I have to hurt her?
Her
eyes follow the crop as I lazily draw it across her belly. I feel a slight smile break on my face as I
drink in her expression. She’s never
really gotten off on the pain and that is what makes me want to hurt her
more. I know if my pet had her way, she
would much rather I untie her knees and explore just exactly how sensuous a
pierced and chained clithood can be – and part of me
wants this too. But the other part
inside me, that which is forever known as the Beast – that is why I hold the
crop and tease her with pain.
He’s
the sore on my soul, this thing, this Beast – born and reared inside me, he is not completely under my control. His motivations are mine and bring me
pleasure, but they come when He wishes, with a strength that He controls. That I have given him a personality doesn’t
bother me. He and I are, of course, one
and the same. But that doesn’t change
anything either.
So why
do I have the crop in my hand, ready to hurt a woman who trusts me to the
extent that she lays beneath me bound in ropes and unable to resist? Because it pleases me. It feeds the beast. And it makes me love her more than anything
else. That she would accept this, with complete
trust, is the bridge to her heart and I cross it without hesitation.
I lean
in close to her face and relish her breath on my cheek, soft, urgent – she’s
unsure what I have planned but faces it bravely. For me. I give her lips a soft and slow kiss and my
dick, halfway between her breasts and her belly gives a few quick jerks. Oh how I want to bury myself inside her and
feel her and smell her and fuck her …
I
break the kiss from her mouth, my lips sliding up the ridge of her nose,
between her eyes to her forehead, where I linger for a moment – my body acutely
feeling her beneath me again, my trussed pet.
I lean close to her ear, the smell of her hair filling me, and whisper, “Do you know I’m
going to hurt you a little now, my love?”
I feel
her body shudder a little against me.
After the briefest of hesitations, her head nods once. My free hand comes up and caresses the other
side of her face, her strong chin, high cheekbones, soft eyelids, and ravenous
brown hair. I whisper again, “Pet, you know
that I love you, don’t you?”
This
time she answers with a whisper, “Yes.”
She doesn’t use Master or Sir – I’ve forbidden any type of name like
that for me. She respects my power in
ways more infinite than a scene title.
‘Pet’ is the only word I use and I’ve heard her refer to me as her owner
– but this is not entirely true, either.
In this dance, we own each other.
I
close my eyes and will myself to not be overcome by the electricity of this
moment, when the music on the dance floor stops and there is the momentary
silence before the applause, before the next dance, the next mood, the next
threshold. “Ask me to hurt you, Pet.”
Her
body stirs and becomes rigid. I drink in
her smell, the warmth of her naked flesh beneath me, her breath on my shoulder,
her hair in my hand …
“Please
hurt me,” she breathes. And then she
adds, her whisper barely heard, “Please love me.”
(Back to She Lies
Beneath Me: Forward)