Wednesday, 12 December 2012

WIP Wednesday: The Mathematics of Desire

And now, for something completely different...

Today, a little teaser of a caning from my BDSM M/F I've been working on with Violetta Vane, tentatively titled The Dom Project, which is a contemporary all about two friends who embark on a no-sex-allowed experiment revolving around domination and submission. Enjoy!
Should I be feeling guilty? he wondered as she slid the skirt up her thighs. Is this more than a mortal man should see? 
Fuck it. No way was he going to regret a second of this. 
He used the tip of the cane to draw a line parallel to her panties, across her right cheek, like he was illustrating a geometry lesson. She didn’t quiver or flinch. Wait, there it was, the slightest wobble of her stiletto heels. “Right there,” he said, making sure to keep his voice completely even, which was hard, but the geometry analogy helped. The mathematics of desire. Sounded like an essay title about Irina Mareau. Composition, field of view, the rule of thirds. Negative space, like the one at the very top of Robin’s thighs if she stood with her legs pressed together. 
He struck precisely along that line, not very much harder than the first stinging blow. The faintest of pink streaks appeared; he watched, mesmerized, as it faded back into the warm ivory color of her flesh. 
“It’s coming harder next time,” he warned. “Stay straight.” It wasn’t easy to hit the right way with a cane, avoiding any contact with bone, but he’d had a lot of practice over the years. Not his favorite implement by far, but it was the one that seemed to suit Robin best: strict, old-fashioned, trim and elegant and straight to the point. 
She nodded. He picked up a hint of eagerness in the motion. It’s not for you, he told himself. It’s for what’s she feeling. His almost painfully hard cock still throbbed, but he was wearing thick jeans tonight, so she wouldn’t notice.  
He had a feeling these jeans would become a mainstay of their sessions. 
He struck again. The same place. As a rule, the cane hurt twice: once coming, second going. That second hurt had her arching minutely towards him and letting out a delightful sharp little gasp. 
“Left side, now.” Again. No gasp this time; she was expecting it. Now there were two matching pink streaks. John eyed them critically. The one on the right was angled lower; he couldn’t have that, not for what he had in mind later. 
Well, maybe strict geometry wasn’t in the cards for tonight. An informal, asymmetric composition was more his style. He struck again—right, then left, faster and harder. The percussive snap of the blows held its own savage charm.  
He stopped, letting the sound fade, then stroked across the streaks as if the cane tip was a lover’s trailing finger. Pausing, he listened attentively to the music of her labored breathing, then struck again. 
And again, until the streaks melted each other, becoming a pink-crimson field of color. Marking her, but not marring her. Making her more beautiful. 
“Oh...” Robin said—a word, not a cry, so John waited for her to finish, but she didn’t. 
“Turn around.” 
When she finally did, bracing herself against the counter behind her for balance, and her hair was mussed and her pupils were blown, lips parted, and color high in her cheeks—John gripped the cane hard between his hands, trying to transfer all his energy into its quivering length so that he didn’t do something stupid like pressing himself against her. 
God, he needed to take a picture of her right now. Not the marks on her thighs, but her face, so dazed and breathless. “Stay there. Right there.” 
He walked backwards toward the kitchen’s entrance, afraid that if he took his eyes off her even a second, the moment would pass. But she didn’t shift, and her expression didn’t change. Her wide blinking eyes just followed him as he moved.  
He had a Nikon with a portrait lens in the living room. He should have brought it with him, but he hadn’t expected this. He’d planned to have her pose for him at the end of their session, pretty and perfect and well-lit, but now he just needed to capture this moment, in all its imperfection. He’d have to go without the flash on this one, shoot with a high ISO, embrace the graininess of the image the same way he embraced the way her mascara had flaked off under her eyes.

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