Hands Up

I growled softly in her ear, “All of this for me Trulie, it’s a bit much, don’t you think?” Her eyes dropped.  I whacked her ass again, precisely where I’d done so before. She licked her lips, her knees buckled again. Tears welled up in the corner of her flickering eyes. I slid my hand up her back, felt the boning of her corset beneath her soft green sweater. Following the constricting meander of ribbon that binds her center of focus to this moment. I tug at a lace, her head drops again and I smack her ass again. Again Trulie is upright and tall. “You know,” I say, “You should ask me to do the things that bring you pleasure and joy. We are friends, are we not?”. “Yes!” She sighed, I whacked her on the ass in the exact same spot, again. My right hand found it’s way to the top of her corset. Attached to a braided silk collar with a heart shaped padlock and braided leather lay between her shoulder blades. I traced it with a finger down her back around her hips and into the rose knot on her sweat. I grabbed her throat, motioned around her to look her in the eye. “Damn! You’re fuckin’ serious. Okay then! Stand right there Bitch” I sat on the edge of an Arnes Jacobsen copy chair, quietly studying her ass, sipping my scotch, pondering the contents of this fucking box and how the fuck did I get here. Tonight, I have problems other men fantasize of waking up to. Shit! “Sit here, on the floor next to me, Kitten. Don’t turn around, just step backwards until you feel my hand and follow it. Just one step and the small of her back was in my hand. I motioned her to my right, “You’d like me to whack your ass.” “Yes. Please”. “Bend at the waist Trulie, as far as you can, cross your left foot over your right. She complied, I smacked her ass hard, solidly enough to make her begin falling forward. I grabbed a corset lace, with her leash and pulled her upright. I felt her regain her stance. Stand up straight. Now sit down now”. It’s a very narrow path I tread. Before this act, this power exchange was just a thing shared with friends, something akin to a booty call, more intimate, but less meaningful. I was doing something nice for a good friend. Trulie helped me walk through some of my social ethic classicist religious issues concerning the pleasure she finds inside the dark spaces beneath the pain. Lead me to understand the spiritual bond and trust that must be established. I lay her head on my knee, stroked her crown of salt and pepper curls and stared at the silver chain around her neck, pondering the meaning of the leash attached and the contents of this box. I swallowed the last of my liquor, sat the glass down on the lace table cloth covered table and opened the box. In it was a string of bells on a thick silver rope. “Give me your ankle Trulie.” She’d been sitting with her feet curled under one thigh. She turned onto her butt, keeping her back straight, head high, lifted her right leg onto my lap then crossed the left over it. I wrapped the chain around her ankle and studied the workmanship. I closed the leather buckle, then raised it to my lips. I checked out her shoes, simple white suede close toed mules, her coffee colored stockings, the thick soft Cuban heel, the beautiful seam, the satiny finish. I closed my eyes and imagined her hands bound, suspended from this stocking. Trulie’s eyes traced up her thick sexy leg to the chain and bells at the top of her foot, until her eyes met mine. And I melted. I swept her legs off, got up and barked. “I’m going outside to smoke. Pour me another drink. Bring it out to the garden. I need to think.’ I stood in the yard fumbling for a pack of cigarettes that weren’t on me. I was about to start cussing and flailing, when she arrived, lit cigarette, scotch and the box. She dropped her head again and said, I have some really great weed, if you like”. I could hear the word Master in her voice. It’s not that I have a problem with the title Master, Maestro, Sensei, I just don’t like the term slave. Trulie is not, could not, and will never be a slave to me. This is not how I would treat a slave that stood this close to me. Now Bitch Goddess, yeah! She is The Precious. Far more than a beautiful object, an element of nature, a form of energy containment. I am awestruck that she’s gifted to me both the honor of tending such a noble responsibility of pleasuring this woman and the sweet addictive feeling of power that comes only when an equal surrenders control of her very life. I walk a narrow path. I turn her around so that I see her form in formal profile. I swat her ass, she collapses into my left collar. With the collar in my left hand, I lift up to her feet and guide her through the open door of the softly lit carriage house. When we get inside, I find dozens of brilliantly colored silk sashes hanging from the eye bolts on the ceiling beams. I take off her sweater, admire the care in which her leash binds the bow on her hip. I drop to the floor. I carefully bind her hands in a sash that swayed in the middle of the room. I hoist her up until the balls of her feet just touch the floor. I step out and finish smoking my cigarette and watch her hang, like a marionette.