Rainy day
“Rainy Day” was written for BDSMforyou.nl by B-liever.
After three weeks of sunshine, it was finally a gray day, a real rainy day. She felt his balls in his scrotum. The balls in her hand. The pressure of her fingers was enough to make him cum. She rolled them like two marbles in her hand. The pain, oh the pain. She could see him cumming, moving, doing it. Actually, she did like active slaves.
Asking for release
His hands were raised high above his head. That – just that alone is enough. She knows it. He knows it too. That she ties him up, leaves him, and watches. How his body shivers. How his mind doesn’t dare ask for release. That. How her gaze admiringly sweeps over his body. As he holds on.
Now she takes a shoelace. The calm lets him breathe. As if he can relax his arms for a moment. I won’t write that he’s standing on his toes; we know that. For a moment, she tugs at his cock. Then the shoelace goes around his balls, the shaft of his cock. The simple fact that the blood cannot flow back easily is enough. She whispers something, or is it the wind she stirs up as she circles him?
Beautiful days
They were beautiful days. A gift, as if you were on vacation. Warm, languid evenings, a slower pace at work. Sometimes it brought a liberating thunderstorm. The next day, beautiful rays of sunshine again.
His cock was proud. Her nipples too. There was lust in inflicting pain, in giving space to the torment. The connection through doing what wasn’t spoken of. Well, after a round of beers, there were occasional jokes about SM. Then both fell silent. On the way home, she would rub his ass. After all, together they knew where the welts had landed. Or not.
Custom-made
Not now. The leather wrist cuffs were of a quality you couldn’t find in a store. Custom-made for them, and not for him. She was away from him. The distance for the bullwhip. The strike like a fencer’s thrust, but with the prod, the spark, tension, current. All she did was move the hand winch two notches further. Higher still.
He stretched. The sound he made resembled a groan. She stood before him and looked up. His gaze downward. That’s how high he’d been hoisted. A tear in the corner of his eye. Her voice soft but so clear. That it was inappropriate to look down on her. She pinched him. A random spot. His stomach, somewhere there. Thumb and index finger, tight and twisting. Then she struck.
The heat makes his body crave her even more than usual. He is dependent, addicted to her whims, her gaze, her eagerness. He can’t go on without her compulsion. He has to feel it, feel it to exist, to live, to save his body from the daily grind of work, relationships, things, hassle, that, until he’s allowed to kneel before her again.
Hard and swollen
He cursed, screamed. Told her it wasn’t allowed. His cock hard, swollen, blood and veins and vulnerable. All she did was put her finger on his lips. Instinctively he kissed, licked, his tongue as if touching the sweetest thing. He sucked eagerly, as if he were a pussy and she his cock. That—eyes closed and doing, surrendering, following. She pulled him. By his cock. Not harder but in a gentle rocking motion.
Like the driving rain coming in waves. That’s how she let him swing. The hoist just a little higher. His feet loose, his arms stretched. His body tense. The small movement. A Foucault pendulum. That, thing, proud, stiff, hard, muscle, muscles, body, as if in her fingers. Playable, a push, a squeeze, and he follows. Whatever she does: he follows.
Full Spring
Like the rain comes after the sun. The warm days after the cold. Winter is always followed by summer, and only the transition is spring. That’s how he was. Fully in spring. Happy, warm, full of longing, and yet fighting the pain. She bent down, brought a step stool – actually three small boards stacked together. Enough to let his toes rest. He didn’t look back but enjoyed the moment of rest. The rainy day between warm days.
The hoist went back three clicks. The lever up and a slight release. His heel on the wood but his arms still raised. The tingling in his fingertips, the stiffness you can’t rub away by running your hand over your arm. Sliding, forcing the pain away. It wasn’t allowed, didn’t have to be, she didn’t want it, and so he accepted it. That acceptance was his strength. The strength that made her want to keep seeing him. It was precisely that he persevered, time and time again, that made him interesting to her.
Stiff arms
She knew about the stiff arms. She also knew about the pleasure she could give him with the long flogger. So she lashed out. Along his body, across his body. Regular movements. Not even a hit. Touching, sometimes, though. Barely, sometimes. Fortunately so, because being touched feels good. He shivered, breathed, sometimes. She saw him. The barely touching was already breaking him, and so she let him be. The strokes continued.
With her hand, she unlocked the hoist. He could go lower, but his arms flailed through the air. Too stiff to lower himself. Too strict to do anything resembling his own initiative. Entirely hers, his wish, her desire, the ultimate goal. Now she struck hard. Striking to break. To destroy him, to make him kneel. Diagonally across his shoulder blades. Sometimes her hand resting forcefully on his shoulder.
Lower or higher
His knees sink, the doubt of whether he should go lower or up. If his leg is still standing, she strikes. Heavy blows there on the leg that still stands. Like the surprise of the rapidly approaching storm. This gray day, the rain, too much water causing the sewer to overflow. That’s how she is now. Going all the way, not stopping, unstoppable, body, man, slave, and striking. That’s what he is, why he’s here. Not for sun and moon, not for rain and sunshine. Just available.
And so he lies. On the ground. As if in a puddle of rainwater. She kneels. Pulls. The lace still in place. Doesn’t take much to make it tight. Tighter, while the body gasps. She could fuck him. Gratefully. Satisfyingly. Proud of her slave. That’s who she is, and she rewards him. Simple, effective. When he turns his face toward her. She sees his eyes. The loving, gentle gaze that speaks to her with such devotion.
His life
Then she spits. Right in his face. As she steps over him, she says she expects him to unfasten the wrist cuffs himself. He nods. Watches her leave. Her body, his life. Then the tears come, his body shakes. And she knows that. She knows that as she stands in the shower. Washing the grime from her body, warming her emotions with the water. Getting herself ready for the sun after this rainy day.
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Source
Text: B-liever
Image: 123rf.com
