With white ribbon recognized as an ingredient in adorable Victorian crafts, understood blearily as the reason why I couldn't rub the sleep from my eyes properly. Both wrists bound and ankles in kind, thick satin strapped cleverly under the bed and such an amused expression hovering over me, candlelit and handsome. He looked delighted to see me as I was, half-dreaming only to awaken and, perhaps, continue the fantasy I'd been having. He's been quite good at that, really. I swear he knows.
I was too startled to give much protest as the restraints were perfected. Thighs were tied to wrists and nothing remained hidden, no matter how stubbornly I contorted. Monstrously strong, that ribbon. The more I pulled, the tighter it became. He liked to remind me of the fact.
Then the blindfold. It was earthy velvet, but colors didn't matter after he'd secured it. He told me I was pretty lying there blind and bound and stripped and I couldn't stand how good it felt. His breath hot along my cheeks, neck, collarbone, teasing at my lips with that cold spike, I could tell he was smiling, I could picture it, I could hear his movements as he retrieved something or other and tormented myself wondering what it was. Few things are sexier than being kissed blind.
The feather surprised me. Instead of pain, sensitivities subtly heightened under deft, downy touches. Along the seam of my chest clean down the center to my hips, along the soft inner thigh and around rapidly swelling, heating moisture, tracing invisible lines of flesh only he could appreciate.
I don't think my nails ever stopped biting into those sheets.
The ice was cruel. Just a hard, wet cube of it sliding along the contours the feather had prescribed, afterimages of sensation tremulous in my nerves, too hot to numb but too intense to take silently, like fire along my stomach, thighs and over my heart. I can feel it even now, remembering the concentration of warmth like the center of a gaslit flame, steady, purpled with cold yet somehow bright, metallic, spread from the center all the way down to my toes. Fingertips twitched tantalized in tangled sheets. I don't know what I sounded like, but he sounded pleased.
Had I known what the candles were burning for I might've suspected what would happen next. Hot wax bit in dripples into skin hypersensitized, fire following ice's imitation of it. I wondered if that was what it felt like to be stabbed with a small, sharp knife, just that instant of penetration savored in a flash of pain as the wax struck only to cool just as quick. It wasn't until he touched me that I realized how slick I'd become, surprised that the pain did not distract from the arousal, but merely heightened it. Waxy trails hardened along my abdomen and thighs so dangerously close to his teasing, managing somehow to hold steady though I flinched and jerked against satin shackles.
I could taste his appreciation, I could smell it. His gasps so often followed my own and it maddened to know why, to be at the mercy of what it created in me, how it slickened and flared the fire under my ribs. Anticipation, arousal, utterly subject to the reaction of tormented nerves as he teased every sense. He liked what he was doing and fuck, how I got off on the fact.
Then he was all around me. I cannot describe how inexorably comfort combines with fear to cement two together, but I knew it would hurt and I knew it would be sweet and I wanted him so badly to do it.
We made love and it was gorgeous. My body literally could not contain the sensation of it, could not withstand the rawness of the passion. He kept me there at the edge so long it was no longer a threshold, but the state of being, the is and nothing else. It was beautifully exhausting and I could tell he wanted more, but he mercifully relented. He let me rest and I didn't push for more-- he has plans. We have toys arriving today and my body is ill-prepared for extended play. He's saving me for something. Something involving remote controls and bullets.
He does so love that remote control.