My partner kneels by my bedside, his head to the floor with his hands stretched out in a yogic “Child’s Pose.” I enter the room and stand at the crown of his head. “Show me your gratitude.” He moves his lips to my leather boots and presses a kiss three times to each.

I pull a soft leather hood over his face and Robert disappears into a being that is my object. His body is the one I lie next to every night, but his face is gone, no longer the man who chides me over the grocery budget nor the jolly father who throws his daughters over his shoulders. His face is a dark spot against the white bedroom walls, a Rorschach ink spill in which I perceive my erotic fantasy.

I instruct the slave to stand at the far end of the sturdy, steel canopy bed. Unraveling a loop of hemp rope, I quickly weave a web that winds around wrists, ankles, torso, and thighs, securing the body to the metal frame. My fingers pause by his chest, squeezing his nipples–– those sensitive triggers that activate his groin, which I also lasso tightly with a thin rope and tie directly to the bed frame. Any struggle will be surely and sorely felt. Satisfied, I step back to admire the collage of rope and muscles, steel and skin.

 

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Mother Whore – I claim both by Yin Q
Slutist – July 15, 2016