Black leather creaks, he carefully spreads the oil.
Metal clicks softly as he cleans his tools…
Rope in a coil, whip and crop..
Thin chain, clips and cuffs..
All made ready… all placed just so,
For the moon is rising…
Candle light dances, the scent of amber..
A quiet knock, she is here..
Gentle pressure.. his hands weave patterns of moonlight as they bind and twist,
Leather tightens.. rope bites flesh.. she shudders, exquisite in her anticipation…
He steps back.. eyes follow the curves of his creation.. she is perfect…
And the light shifts, silver turning to honey… he raises the whip..
His hand falls, trails of fire and passion etched on skin and mind..
A cry torn from pleasure and agony escapes into the night..
And honey turns to crimson..
He takes her there.. in the place where thoughts have no meaning..
Time is lost… he bends to kiss jeweled salt from her lips..
Breath on her ear.. a whisper.. “good girl”..
And she is free.
Best wishes -SirHanz