Yours For The Taking
[I was looking for this entry, but realized I never ported it over from Fetlife in the way-back when. Enjoy! - Lily ]
Bryce: [standing in doorway] I feel all…tense.
Lily: [lying in bed fully dressed, reading a book] You wouldn’t happen to want to give me a beating, would you?
Bryce: [pause] Yes, actually.
Lily: 30 minutes?
Bryce: [nods, gets evil grin]
One hour later
Bryce: So. How was that?
Lily: [pause] Hm.
Bryce: Hm.
[Long digression into the particularities of subspace and topspace, endorphins, oxytocin, freedom, arousal, control, particle physics, objectification, wax play, electoral politics, moving to California, getting everything you ever dreamed of, coming to bed a man and rising a gleaming demigod ]
Three minutes later
We don’t use the cuffs this time. I just bend over the bed, putting my head down in my arms the way we used to when our grade school teachers told us to put our heads down on the desk to rest. Bryce moves my hair out of the way.
I remember telling him, “You know all those people who hit a punching bag to get out their emotions because they can’t hit people? Well, you can hit an actual person! Not the person you’re angry at, because then you’d go to jail, but still…you get the real thing!”
I can tell by the way he’s hitting me that he takes me seriously. The flogger lands with a massive thud on my back, again and again.
I relax into it. My eyes sink shut. I imagine taking all of it, everything that pisses him off, makes him tense, afraid, uncertain, just taking it into myself and rendering it harmless, leaving behind only glittering arousal.
The skin between my shoulderblades starts to heat up; now each blow stings. For the first time that evening, I begin to breathe deeply. He hears it; sees it, maybe, and stops.
What is he doing? Is he stopping?
I feel his hand on the back of my neck, holding me still, and then
OH!
Hot wax pools in the small of my back, shockingly hot and then indescribably wonderful.
The beating resumes, percussive, tribal. The sound of the little radio, tuned to a classical music station, gets dimmer and fainter to me, as if someone is carrying it down the hall, down the stairs and out into the street, away and out into the American night.
It goes on until I put my hand back; slowly; it feels like I’m doing it under water.
“No?”
“No. I can’t hold myself up,” I say.
Bryce helps me onto the bed, where I lie curled on the sheets.
I think he doesn’t know what to do now.
“Come here,” I say.
I say it again. “Come here. Take me to you.”
Bryce climbs onto the bed, draws me to him.
“I’m yours.”
“I know. Good girl.”
“Bryce. This is not a script; it’s not role-play. I’m trying to tell you something. Listen to me.”
You can beat me and fuck me and play with me because I’m yours. You take me to you now because I belong to you. You’re always so worried about me leaving, when all you ever have to do is take what you want from me. It’s all yours for the taking.
I feel Bryce’s face grow hot and wet on my back.
Baby, don’t you know?
I’m yours for the taking.
