The Gift

© 1996 Marlene Taylor

He is the clean canvas, the unmarked slate: spread-eagled on the bed, hand and feet tied with leather to the four posts. His black hair spills of the pillow, in sharp contrast to his pale English skin. A breathing statue. He waits.

Through half-opened eyes he watches her - sharply outlined in black latex as she contemplates her whip and his body

like an artist

like a painter

the first stroke of color must be perfect

As a preface she lets the end drag slowly across him, then flicks it away; he moans, unaware of anything except her icy stare and the ache in his groin and his mind. Sensing his impatience, she does it again, this time drawing it between his legs until he claws the air with bounds hands.

In a flash of movement she strikes him, bringing the whip down hard and fast across his hips, pausing to watch the red stripe rise

the first stroke of color must be perfect

He tenses for the next blow, eyes tightly shut, but she knows this game, she makes him wait and wonder and relax and then she seizes the moment. The leather cracks on his chest, four, five, ten times, now she aims at his shoulder and then she lashes him harder, harder each time he cries out

she creates him with tears and sweat and blood

she shapes him with pain and pleasure

he is lost in her dream

in sweet violent passion

She loves the arch of his back each time the whip comes down, the tiny dark red drops on the sheets, the bright welts crisscrossing his white white skin.

She drops the whip next to him and sit on the bed, and kisses his trembling lips, making him hurt because he cannot touch her and pulling back when he lifts his head for one more shared breath. She holds his chin up, savoring her power over his beauty, the desperate need in his eyes, the tears and sweat shining on his face.

For an instant she thinks of leaving him like this; she gets up and walks to the door, but he looks so helpless that he is irresistible. The ice in the bucket has begun to melt, so she dips a washcloth into the water and wipes his face clean, the cold making him shiver. She wants to take him to the edge

the final stroke of color must be perfect

She lets her fingers run very lightly over his stiff cock, tracing her fingernails over his balls, watching him writhe between the coldness of her hand and the need for her touch. Now he is in the other place, eyes tightly shut, waiting for something, anything; she takes a sharp piece of ice out of the bucket and holds it ready over his twisting body. In his mind it will be anything - hot , cold, sharp, dangerous. She touches it to his groin, just above the pubic hair, then draws it in a straight line up to his neck as he inhales sharply, tense, afraid but trusting her until she holds the point behind his ear and then he thinks this is the time she is going to do it this time a new fear and then she drags it across his throat, digging deep, leaving a red line and he tries to scream but it only comes out as a choking gasp and that moment stretches out for a long long time

he is caught in tension and sensation

And then she laughs and he is back in his body, her body, his neck is cold and wet and she pulls his head back by the hair and looks deep in his eyes

she loves her creation

she loves her work

and she sits back to enjoy what she has given him.

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