Fiction - Moment of Doubt

It was a particularly bad day for me. You could tell by the darkness in my eyes when I walked in the door, I think.

You knew what was coming. When I need a release, you give yourself over to me; eager to please.

You knew where this was going to go, didn't you?

So when I look down at you, legs and arms strapped and spread-eagled on my bed, a series of clamps on your tits, and a blindfold over your eyes... why do I feel sorrow?

What is this guilt that forces me to pause? Am I taking out my anxieties on you? Am I using you, unfairly?

I watch you breathe. You're flushed and excited. In the back of my mind, a voice reminds me that "she likes this".

You like this. You enjoy the things I do to you. The way I touch you. The way I torture you.

When you're tied up, and you don't know whether it's going to be ice, wax, whips, biting or my hand smacking your skin, it drives you nuts, doesn't it?

And the things I say.

I've said them before, and I'll say them again. "Whore". "Slut".

Whore.

Yes, you're a whore.

No, you're my whore.

My whore.

I reach for my flogger, and bring it down on your wet, throbbing cunt.

Yes.

It flies through the air again, and you cry out from the leather smacking your wet pink flesh. Oh yes. I whip you several more times, then pause, and watch your body enjoy the sensations.

That's it. Beg me.

Beg me for more.

This is who I am. This what you want.

This what we both want.

-- The Bastard, Resolved