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| Image licensed from shutterstock.com |
I wrote this piece a few days ago, thinking back to the day all this happened. I process experience through my writing, and have been intrigued by what makes a perfect Master for me...and I would guess that it's all in the sound of his voice, the feel of his hands and the way he gazes into my eyes.
Inspired by the man who inspired my novel Spontaneous Combustion...
He has mastered the art…
The way he
speak to me
in bold
strokes, in black and white
no-nonsense
master slave talk
I
shudder and squirm
mesmerized
by the sound of his voice
and words he
chooses to define us
He has me in his grip the moment he speaks
and in that moment
I am his
Speaking of his grip on
me, there are his hands
The muscle and brawn, the command, the strength
He humbles me with his touch
the fire, heat and firmness pouring from his fingers
through
my body and I become his captive
He
contains me with the fierceness of his hold
He binds
me with his body and I am
crushed,
chastened and overcome
and in
that moment
I am his
The way he smells, that testosterone laden scent
the pheromones
I breathe in through my body
pull me
into him
he tastes
of sex and desire as I use my mouth to pleasure him
and in the
moment when the raw scent and feral taste collide
I am his
And then his eyes, penetrating and dark, the way they look
at me
hone in on
my face and make me tremble in awe
Again and
again, they come back to me to stare me down
so fixedly
that I blush and turn away
I wonder
what he sees in me when he gazes so closely into my eyes
Would he
ever put his thoughts into words?
The moment
his eyes connect with mine
I am his
He’s mastered the art of mastering me
unhinging
me
loosening
the anchor
letting me
free float in the hard feel of this body
the
taste of it and its smell
the
touch, the command, the presence
everything
he is takes me someplace like nowhere else
where
I am reduced
and
find heaven there
where
I would stay forever if I could
His power over my feelings, my thoughts, my body
and how far
I want to go with him
scares me
But still I
am his as I continue to unravel,
and wonder as I do:
When do we stop?
Where does this end?
When I find
myself so snared
so scared
so taken
and used
when his
eyes trap me again, I have to ask:
“Master, what
do you see when you look me in the eye?
What do you
see in me?”
