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Freedom

Freedom? These people think they know freedom? Freedom of my favorite kind is not considered acceptable in this polite society. I work in my conservative job and dress in my unremarkable clothes wading through the week in anticipation of my weekend trysts. My unknowing colleagues never would guess that my weekend is so much different than theirs. Whilst they savor the idea of a barbecue on the beach, I long to be strapped to a bench. Their picnics are traditional fare whilst my master exhibits me with tremendous dazzle and flair. They share ears of corn and slices of apple pie while my every orifice is conquered, filled and devoured. The men all try to swing for the bleachers whilst playing baseball but my Mistress is proudest when I can take it all.

I live for paddles and soft silk straps and spend my week hoping that those most tender of spots will stay sensitive until Thursday as a reminder of what has passed and an image to behold of what is yet to come.

Monday through Thursday I merely exist. Friday begins the ritual cleansing. I shower and shave in preparation for the evening?s libations. No alcohol to touch my lips but a good measure will be spilt on my body for the guests to imbibe. My intoxicant is a special blend of pain and pleasure in the consummation of sin.

Tonight is a festive game and my seat is one of honor. Hydraulically elevated, it distinguishes me from others. Its custom design makes me easily accessible yet binds me in such rapturous ways that my skin feels wired.

A gentle fingernail trailing my exposed flesh sends ripples of gratification straight to the feral core of my womanhood. Velvet caresses bring my bliss to a razor?s edge. Straining for just a smidgen more, I writhe on my throne in dire necessity for wretched compliance is the one true freedom I behold.

Alcohol flows, steam rolls of the hot tubs as glistening bodies slide across the underwater benches. Feet tangle and digits seek and stroke. Soft murmurs of pleasure echo off the cavern-like walls. Music pumps down the hallway from the dance floor as bodies thrum to a primitive beat. Tension is a good thing in this hedonistic retreat.

Power to control, strength of character, patient vigilance to every nuance. Holding the captive audience on the razor?s edge, teetering only to subside, restricted solely by my whim. Weathered leather encircling my wrists and ankles, gentle prodding gradually intensifies igniting the fevered longings; stretching the moments along with the limbs, ceasing at the precipice of torment. Delicious caresses first delicate then harsh; taunting and intoxicating the subject of this art.

Soft whispers of scented breath, puffs of exhalation gliding over receptive skin, sending a cavalcade of shivers quaking to the soul. Reticence foregone, the subject sings an encore of impassioned murmurs. Strikes are never vile, always subdued in this tryst of semblance. The mistress presents as powerful but holds no such constraint. The pliant one controls the hand of his or her fate. In this game the power is restraint. At my Mistress? whim I am offered release, the waiting having made it all the more sweet.

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