"Good," he almost snarled, coming back to himself, roughly tucking away and zipping
back up. "Now I can focus on you."
The way he said it, a shudder went through me, goose bumps prickling again.
"Stand up," he said. I did, more smoothly than I expected without use of my arms. My
yoga practice certainly had some side benefits. "Have you been practicing, like I told you?"
I knew exactly what he meant. After the last time we played this game, he told me I
had to learn my body better. I had to be able to warn him before I was too close to the edge.
In order to get there, I was supposed to practice something he called "edging" - bringing
myself to the brink and then back again, as many times as it took to learn my own limitations.
I had been practicing, as a matter of fact. But it was always going to be more difficult
when he was involved. I hoped he understood, but I didn't think now was the time to remind
him.
"Yes, Sir," I said. "I have."
"And are you prepared to tell me stop, whenever it's necessary? Even if it's the hardest
thing you've ever had to do?"
If my hands were free, I would have clenched them into fists.
"Yes," I said. "I'm ready."
He cocked an expectant eyebrow.
Shit.
"Sir," I corrected myself. "Yes, Sir."
"I'll forgive that," he said, circling me, his hands linked behind his back in an absurd
parody of mine. "You're probably a bit distracted."
Diabolical. I bit back a sarcastic retort, because this wasn't the time. He was right -
this version of myself, this submission, was a gift given freely. It could be revoked at any time,
but if I was going to play, I was going to play.
"I control your pleasure," he said, in a voice that he reserved just for these moments. It
washed over me like a warm ocean current, one that I wanted to drown in. He held my face in
his hand, my chin tucked in the space between his thumb and the side of his palm. His fingers
dug in, some into the soft flesh, others pressing against my jaw. "Do you understand?"
"Yes, Sir."
He seemed satisfied with this, letting go and reaching behind me to untie my hands.
My fingers were just starting to tingle from the awkwardness of the position, and I shook the
feeling back into them.
"Show me," he said, returning to the armchair and relaxing into it. His tone was on the
casual side, now, but - what was it? Clinical, almost. "Show me how you've been practicing."
My throat was suddenly tight. "Excuse me?"
"You heard what I said." Now, he seemed annoyed. "What's so difficult to
understand?"
"I..." This was a new one, and I instantly felt embarrassed by the idea. Which was
absurd, wasn't it? But maybe not. It felt, not too intimate, but too personal. Until he'd ordered
me to practice, we had never discussed the topic of my own...leisure activities. I did it often
enough, and I assumed he did too, especially during those times when we saw each other
infrequently. Usually, when I did, I thought of him. Sometimes, just as he was - other times,
harder and crueler.
back up. "Now I can focus on you."
The way he said it, a shudder went through me, goose bumps prickling again.
"Stand up," he said. I did, more smoothly than I expected without use of my arms. My
yoga practice certainly had some side benefits. "Have you been practicing, like I told you?"
I knew exactly what he meant. After the last time we played this game, he told me I
had to learn my body better. I had to be able to warn him before I was too close to the edge.
In order to get there, I was supposed to practice something he called "edging" - bringing
myself to the brink and then back again, as many times as it took to learn my own limitations.
I had been practicing, as a matter of fact. But it was always going to be more difficult
when he was involved. I hoped he understood, but I didn't think now was the time to remind
him.
"Yes, Sir," I said. "I have."
"And are you prepared to tell me stop, whenever it's necessary? Even if it's the hardest
thing you've ever had to do?"
If my hands were free, I would have clenched them into fists.
"Yes," I said. "I'm ready."
He cocked an expectant eyebrow.
Shit.
"Sir," I corrected myself. "Yes, Sir."
"I'll forgive that," he said, circling me, his hands linked behind his back in an absurd
parody of mine. "You're probably a bit distracted."
Diabolical. I bit back a sarcastic retort, because this wasn't the time. He was right -
this version of myself, this submission, was a gift given freely. It could be revoked at any time,
but if I was going to play, I was going to play.
"I control your pleasure," he said, in a voice that he reserved just for these moments. It
washed over me like a warm ocean current, one that I wanted to drown in. He held my face in
his hand, my chin tucked in the space between his thumb and the side of his palm. His fingers
dug in, some into the soft flesh, others pressing against my jaw. "Do you understand?"
"Yes, Sir."
He seemed satisfied with this, letting go and reaching behind me to untie my hands.
My fingers were just starting to tingle from the awkwardness of the position, and I shook the
feeling back into them.
"Show me," he said, returning to the armchair and relaxing into it. His tone was on the
casual side, now, but - what was it? Clinical, almost. "Show me how you've been practicing."
My throat was suddenly tight. "Excuse me?"
"You heard what I said." Now, he seemed annoyed. "What's so difficult to
understand?"
"I..." This was a new one, and I instantly felt embarrassed by the idea. Which was
absurd, wasn't it? But maybe not. It felt, not too intimate, but too personal. Until he'd ordered
me to practice, we had never discussed the topic of my own...leisure activities. I did it often
enough, and I assumed he did too, especially during those times when we saw each other
infrequently. Usually, when I did, I thought of him. Sometimes, just as he was - other times,
harder and crueler.