Hanging by a Thread

Her eyes were closed. It wouldn’t have mattered if they had been open; the blindfold was snug against her face. In her head she was in a dark, warm place.

Currents of air brushed past her nude body.

She felt intimately connected with every pore of her skin, with every pulse pounding through her veins, with every smooth intake of breath.

The rope around her wrists was tight, but not painfully so. The wood under her hands was smooth, almost velvety to the touch.  She caressed the cross with her forefinger, grounding herself in the sensations.

A quick hiss escaped her lips as she felt the tug of her nipple, then the bite of the clamp. He tugged, drawing another hiss from her, then applied its mate. The gasp became a groan as she adjusted to the weight, the clench of the rubber grips.

He pushed her back into the arms of the cross, and she winced as her clamped nipples were pressed against the unyielding timber.  She took an unsteady breath, held it, then released it, and her discomfort, out to the room.

She allowed herself a moment to wallow with the fullness of the feelings, to inspect them, to feel them. Oh, to feel the glory of the pain, the richness of blood pumping through her heart, the essence of life filling her, pulsing through her.

She felt the press of the ropes around her ankles, holding her tight. She felt the movement of Him around her. His scent carried to her, that unique smell of her Master. It quickened her breath, made her want.

There was no warning before the sharp rat-a-tat-tat of the cane began slapping down her shoulders. He moved leisurely down her body. Barely could she absorb one blow before the next one landed.  He popped her out of comfort and straight into the hell of not being in control.

She’d told Him that yoga had helped her to learn to cope with His play. He’d raised His brow at her in that superior way of His, and smiled.

It was the smile that slayed her. It bloomed across His face like a rose, taking its time moving from one corner of his mouth to the other.

And it was a challenge, too. A week and more had passed since she had pronounced that she could handle it this time, that she’d be able to breathe and be one with the universe, no matter how hard He chose to play with her.

Now here she was, hanging by a thin wrap of hemp rope on a cross, in a room full of people. He’d promised to break her, she’d promised to stay the course, and breathe.  He’d turned that raised brow and crooked smile to the crowd gathered around them,  drawing more than a few laughs at her recklessness.

She took a breath, another. The heat from her tortured flesh and  the pain swirled together, a blending of sensations that was nearly overwhelming. She flinched, snapping away and back from the cross as He hit that so-tender spot at the base of her back just before the padding of her ass.

His crop moved faster now, over the curve of her asscheek, and then the next senstive spot just under the curve, on the very top of her thigh.

She arched to her toes on the cross, yowling. His chuckle filled her ears, even over the roaring of her own throbbing pulse.  He didn’t pause until He had covered one entire side. She felt the roaring heat from the welts. He leaned against her, His sweater irritating the smarting flesh.

“Half done, little one.”

She moaned, taking a deep breath to try to steady the hammering of her heartbeat in her head. It sounded like a roar in the darkness.

Or was it Him?

“Oooohhhhhhmmmm” He purred, his lips against her temple.

9 thoughts on “Hanging by a Thread

    1. *clapping hands*

      i have never been tied to a cross. i’m so glad you thought i had though! (fist pump in the air)

      oh, wouldn’t i love my very own? So you play with rope and work with wood. How kewl is that? *smiling*

      nilla

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