Four Words
It is amazing how well a submissive can respond to the right Dominant.
And within the spectrum of submissives, it is fascinating how the right submissive can feed a Dominant’s desire and natural instincts. I enjoy a woman who understands this phenomena and appreciates that a proper BDSM bond is formed as a triad of head, heart, and soul.
“Soul” is often seen as a religious term. To me, it is a woman’s underlying essence - her natural order of things. It is her compass and her center. It grounds her, motivates her, and inspires her. Taken to its rightful place, the dance of Dominance and submission can be most subtle and yet ever so erotic, powerful, and cathartic.
Imagine, if you will. Dominant and submissive, walking hand in hand. Only the trained eye will note that she is barely a half step behind and that his hand is in the superior position over hers. They enter a hotel room, and he closes the door behind them. The bolt is drawn.
Silence.
He walks her to the center of the room. turns her to face him, and releases her hand. Again, only someone accustomed to this dance can detect the subtle shift in her posture as she lowers her eyes and her head descends ever so slightly. He takes her by the chin and raises her face up, his eyes locking with hers. His gaze penetrates deep into her soul. She feels her wetness now, betraying her desires. The stillness is deafening.
He leans forward, his cheek grazing hers ever so slightly, warming her with his body heat and sending a surge of almost erotic energy down the nape of her neck and her spine. He whispers in her ear the first of four words she has been craving for the past 48 hours. Time without him. Torture - because as he has taught her - torture takes many forms.
“Strip”.
His whisper breaks the silence and drives her, in reflex mode. Her clothes leave her body in a steady cascade as she discards the trappings of her vanilla existence and experiences her first level of descent into that wonderfully dark and intense place known as sub space.
As her clothes fall, she can feel her body respond as if wired to his voice and his movements. Her nipples are fully erect, bordering hypersensitive. They respond to the grazing fabric of her blouse as it descends, almost as if he had clutched each between his thumb and first two fingers, twisting and pulling as he so often loved to do. Her nipples transfer this electricity directly to her clit, re-tracing the erotic pathway he had opened months before. Her clit swells, protruding from its hood and yearning, tantalizingly for whatever sensation he chooses next. Her pussy pulses and quivers ever so slightly, and her tiny rosebud clutches and relaxes in anticipation of torments, and pleasures yet to come.
“Kneel”.
The word barely escapes his lips and her body responds. She descends in a steady free fall to the floor, kneeling with her legs apart as she has been trained to do. She has arrived at the second way point in her descent, and her body responds with new shudders and internal trembles. Her pulse quickens, her breathing comes now in silent clutches, and her pussy lubricates, brimming with nectar to the point of dripping. She lowers her head and listens for the next word to rip though the silence.
“Open”.
Pure objectification. Naked, kneeling in an exposed position, she now descends to her true purpose that night. She opens her mouth wide, resisting the temptation to lick her lips in anticipation. She brings her head up and levels her mouth with the area in his slacks that she craves, as she was methodically trained to do.
She waits, her pussy now dripping, and her slight trembles and whimpers betraying her excitement and anticipation. He slowly draws down his zipper and removes his cock from his pants, inches from her mouth. She does not move, but remains kneeling, orifice presented for his pleasure, waiting. Waiting. Waiting.
And finally, the fourth word.
The word that brings her to the wonderfully exotic, dark reaches of sub space and releases her to her core purpose, her joy. The word that becomes her final greeting, her grounding, and her place of refuge.
“Suck”.
© Fringe of Darkness, 2012
