Ritual flagellation and whipping with Maîtresse Nuit
You have been waiting in the total darkness of your blindfold. Kneeling on a hard and grainy surface, your cuffed hands are hooked to a pulley which holds them just above your head and slightly behind the top of your skull. Your body aches from the complete immobility imposed by the rope bondage tying neatly your bent legs in three consecutive figures of eight which link your ankles and calves to your thighs. Each of the figures of eight is attached to the loop finishing the genital restraint made of a finner hemp string. Each time you try to readjust your position, the hard grainy surface digs in new minute surfaces of your knees allowing you to discover the breadth of the patella. The smallest movement tugs on the cock and ball tie which holds your lust in an inescapable grip.
Your mind wanders along your constrained limbs looking for space where restriction reigns. The slow rhythmic ticking of the metronome seeped into your mind quickly after I left you to prepare for the rite until it regulated your breathing. Like a pendulum, emotions have risen and crashed against the implacable evidence of your voluntarily abdicated will until you have relinquished your ego to the dependable metallic cadence.
You have not heard the discreet opening and closing of the door, nor have you noticed the rustling of the taffetas curtain pulled over it, sealing the inner sanctum where you suffer quietly.
I am observing you in silence, immobile, poised. I ascertain the level of your submission and your discomfort in this extended moment, judging whether we can proceed to the ritual.
Without a word, I approach, synchronizing my steps to the rhythm of the metronome, altering the texture and temperature of the air around us. Now you sense my presence and you bow.
I untie all the knots that bind you.
You are seated on a cushioned little stool, drinking my nectar out of an XVIII century crystal glass. The pale gold liquid flows through your throat quenching your thirst and marking you further as my possession, and, with blood flooding back to your arms and legs, enveloped in the heady scent of leather, skin and perfume, you stretch into momentary respite.
Soon, I command you to stand up with your arms along your torso. I gag you with a horse bite and I walk you to the place of your ordeal. I hook your cuffed wrists to the two eyes of an arched metal bar. I pull the bar all the way to the bondage rig in the ceiling, lifting both your arms well above your head and with a belt, I secure a piece of padding across your lower back protecting thus your kidneys.
The metronome has stopped.
Finally, I remove for the first time your blindfold and let your gaze induldge the sight of your Mistress: through the volutes of frankincense smoke you glance at my dancer’s body hugged in a corset of black lace. I wear custom-made thigh-high leather boots with vertiginous heels and the finest black lambskin opera gloves.
Coiled in my hand is a skillfully crafted leather bullwhip…