Yo! Yo!
Her ass is across my lap. Her soft ass. Her pink ass. Her round ass. Her firm ass. My hand is poised above her ass. Her glowing ass. Her throbbing ass. My hand burns. My palm is inflamed. I wait for her to merely twitch. I feel the sting she feels. Her ass is my palm. That is a sweet indebtedness. My palm only stings. With each strike, she turns to dew. Between her cheeks, beasts feed on the moisture.
Spank sounds to me like a million notes, cascading down your imaginary spine. Yet it is only one sound. How long is spank? How long the martial thrill of one lone drum beat? How long the slap that ends the tears? The sharp sound greets her ass. Spank. She quivers as she takes the sound. Her ass savors the sound waves. She begs for it louder. Spank is a crescendo. She moans from the volume. I hear the palm of my hand burning. Her ass is in flames. Between her cheeks, there is more moisture than before. Her ears crave the next crack, the briefest explosion. The barest imprint is the most severe.
Her ass is red. She is glaze. She is taken and she is warmth in my lap. See; she strives to push her sex into my leg. Through my leg, making us one, taking us one. The waterfall of spank has become all thighs and spinning. My desires spill into her. Her desires tumble into me. Her lap is now my pillar. I am surrendered and displayed. I crave the sound, I crave the strike. It comes too soft at first. I strain to hear. The next is louder, and I know, from the delicious slice of sound, it has made me pink. Already I am desperate to hear triple Forte. I get it. Her palm is the volume. I will beg her palm to make it louder. Her palm burns for me. My ass is red.
I am about to burst. I must hold on to something. Thrust. Its rope. In my hand. As I run the lifeline, I drape the working end over her arm, the one that was keeping her beat. No more, as I snare her, and the rope is now coiled around her arms, binding her, surrounding her. The rope has circled all the beasts that were loose after feeding at her moisture, and put them all back inside her, where they growl at me as I secure the knot that is her sex. My servant, the rope, has entwined itself into her hair. I tie her from hair to elbow to waist to ankle. My pillar is now my possession. I touch where and when. I pinch and she moans. I run my nails down her back and see the traces it sends scatter in all directions, wrapping her front, raking her breasts, one nail down her very center. Her ass is still glowing. The warmth comes as a surprise. The bondage has her. She is a contained explosion. There are fuses everywhere and I light them all. I know she can not burst. I will not allow her that, the ropes are not ready yet. The bondage has her.
The bondage wraps itself into my thoughts of her. I also am taken by the rope. I am entwined around her and her flesh touches me everywhere. I feel her desires enter me, I feel my desires absorbed by her. Again we transpire. Our breathe exchanges our boundaries. She is now rope and I am possession. Her nails consummate along the rope, they gather my flesh at her fingertips. Her fingertips are at my lips. My own flesh is my succor. My own flesh is contained and immobilized by her bonds. My hands are stilled. I exalt in her triumph. With each exaltation, I am more tightly bound. There is no end. Inside I rage. I beg for release, not release from her embodiment, but release from the passions of my beast within, ripping its way out. Through the rope I feel her find me. I feel her hand as it guides. I am where she opens to me. I am where she is wet and I am hard. I am at the center of our want. I pause and deny her. She falls to me again.
She begs for her completion. She is beyond wet. I am beyond hard. Neither of us will relent to satisfaction. We think we tease and we are teased. “Please stop or I will come” flows from our deepest reservoir. We have sound in our ears, rope on our flesh, and we are the scent of beasts feeding. We are denied each other and assailed by desire for each other. If I were to whip her now, I would feel each blow. We do not know where the fields of orgasm grow. We both crave those fields and we are both blinded to them. We both command as we are carried away by the other. There is no possession without relinquishing all possession. We are both Master and slave.
With desperation in our eyes, we look at each other. We surrender to the greater drive. The cards are all played, and no dealer exists. We are tied together as we release. We have been the ebb and the flow. Now we are one onrushing tumult of passion. I have demanded, she has complied. She has commanded, I have supplied. I am as drowned in her dominance as she is drowned in her submission. She is as contained by my dominance as I am released by my own submission to her. We have been both Master and slave, slave and Master. Now we are simply resolved.
Fini
"YO YO," a device that continually switches its direction.
Up and down. Top and bottom. There is a great deal of discussion in the BDSM community about “switches,” people who like to alternate between the role of Dominant and submissive. Usually, it is a matter of who shall do what to whom from day to day. As the Master of a BDSM training chateau, I am constantly being asked what I think about switching; about why people switch, are they less Dominant or submissive because they do switch and other questions of that nature. Rather than write about the intellectual passages that create our desires to switch, I thought I would take a shot at the far more difficult process of presenting what the switch encounters, why we savor the exchange. My intent in the short piece above was to show the sexual energy found in the act of switching , not the intellectual reasoning behind it. Hopefully, the eroticism above will not only share some of my thoughts on the subject, it will also encourage readers to freely explore both aspects of our human condition.
Contact us at:
TheInformalChateau@LaDomaineEsemar.com
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