You perch on the edge of the black leather bench and smile with rapture at a memory. Times floats inexorably, widening the space of emotions as you slowly bend your neck and contemplate your dangling feet. The “Thank you Maîtresse” is a whisper more than an address, it comes from that intimate place where the “action” is happening, it is a profound utterance, felt, authentic, pathetic.
This moment of pure joy is palpable, it radiates across the vastness of the scarlet room. A quiet blast of light from a world with no words. Visceral, atemporal, erotic, sacred.
The session has barely started.
I have fixed the last black sandals’ straps across your bonny feet. I know the pricks of metal are scratching your inner soles.
I look at your face lost in delight, I look at the contrast formed by the austere sandals and my elegant oxblood patent stilettos. I smile at the painful promenade that will ensue.
Gravity claims her rights as you lower yourself to the ground. And as I observe the pain blossoming in your eyes, your pupils widened. Your gaze turns deeper inward despite their fixation on my heels, on the tensed curved of my calves veiled in 7 deniers black nylons.
I lead you through the room by the silk black rope attached to the chain linking your clamped nipples. At first, I turn my back to you, varying the rhythms of our cortège, intensifying both the sensations of the biting spikes and the crucifying teeth of the clamps. I leave you to explore the space around the double torment, the crests and troughs, the textures of pain.
Our trajectory now leaves linearity to describe turns, lateral, backward and forward walks.
I am working towards 60 beats per minute for each measure of 3/4: a Viennese waltz…. Lofty ideals always help and the waltz is an exhilarating dance. :)
For the moment you sway to Franz Schubert’s Andantino of the Piano Sonata D.959 mirroring my movements. I know that after the meditative and dreaminess of the first movement, will come the harsh sonorities of the middle with abrupt rhythms which climax will give place to a serene ending. A metaphor of the scene concentrated in 7 minutes and a bit.
Your lean body is shrouded in a glistening film of sweat as you stumble through the harsh changes of tempo and direction. Echoes bounce on the alizarine walls illuminated by the scintillating lights of the glass chandelier fragmenting the cries of your silent suffering.
I can feel the core of my spine a prickling acidity: the delicious pleasure I take at your tortured flesh and ecstatic sensations.
A high pitched tone of a glass harmonica murmurs a dissonant lullaby. The heavy metal door screeches and the last lock clunks. Your recumbent body is bound. Your wrists, ankles and cock attached to the bars of the cage with hemp rope. A cilice of sorts.
You lie in the cage on a bed of thorny stems enveloped by the sharp scent of freshly cut white roses trimmed with crimson which blooms float in a crystal bowl on the table near the sofa where I rest. You look at my feet encased in the embrace of the brilliant patent leather, their accentuated arches tantalising.
Later, will come the bastinado. The cane, will take the place of the spikes and cut the tenderised marking your soul in a liberating and abject last flash of delight.
