She may be the beauty or the beast
May be the famine or the feast
May turn each day into a heaven or a hell.
-Elvis Costello, She
Sometimes you write the thing. For Amy (and her Catsuit)
I can’t think straight.
I can think in curves though.
In the undulation of hips and the swell of breasts. In the soft security of her belly.
I think of her and find my thoughts split into a thousand sparkling fireworks, a rainstorm of her eyes, her mouth, her hand on my arm to guide me.
She intoxicates, she enchants. She is beauty and light but wickedness hides beneath her innocent face, her startling body. You cannot help but stare, and she welcomes your coy glances, your quiet devotion.
She would cast others away with a look or a sharp word. Not you, though. She looks at you and nods. She will take your face in her tender, child-like hands and turn you this way and that, inspecting you. She tells you to stick out your tongue and runs her thumb over it thoughtfully, pushing her digits in further, because she heard you deep-throated like a desperate slut and wants to test out the theory. As you gag she withdraws her fingers, satisfied, and wipes your own spit over your stupid, lovestruck face.
Later, she will tie you up, tie you down, bind your breasts until they are sore with pleasure. Her cabinet of wonders is large and boundless with ropes and cuffs. Red for your wrists; black for your chest, purple wound in mirror image prettiness around your legs to hold you still. To her, you are art.
One by one she sets down implements of desirous torture and you can only wait to see what she would like to use on you. The paddle? The strap? The switch? The crop? The wood-backed hairbrush she’s had since childhood?
You are content that before night falls, your backside will be a galaxy of different colours and your head will be in her lap, your body curled around her securely as she strokes your hair and murmurs softly how good you are, how good and obedient.
Permitted to share her bed – she in her partner’s t-shirt, you naked – you are instructed to lie atop the bedclothes for twenty minutes. She watches you for ten or more of these, as the goose pimples rise and bloom across the landscape of your body.
“Spread your legs.” She orders, though not unkindly, moving closer. She runs her fingers over your thighs, tracing the indents of her coloured ropes. You stare at the ceiling as her hand moves higher, higher and higher still, until you feel her mouth, the heat of her cheek against your cunt and you close your eyes as her tongue insinuates between the outer lips and you realise you have held your breath from the moment she dipped her head to you, and exhale as she raises her head to smile with approval.
“Not tonight. Soon, but not tonight. Tonight you need sleep. Tomorrow you will need your strength.”
She clambers beneath the covers herself before allowing you to do likewise, holding out her arm to pull you close and share her warmth.
Your sleep is deep and dreamless, a blank canvas for who knows what tomorrow will bring?