2010/11/19

Fugue (Spanking Fiction)

He had her by the hand, leading her down the passage towards the bedroom. She did not look up, focusing on her bare feet, counting when she sees her red toes, the steps towards what was awaiting her. He has not said another word since he so easily dismissed her declaration of hatred with the gentle mocking of her childish outburst.

Her legs felt heavy, her steps slow, as the bedroom entrance came into sight. Her mouth felt dry, and with every ounce of control in her, she focused on her breathing, keeping it even, although her body is screaming for more air. She could feel her skin becoming clammy, her heart beat drumming away, and as much as what she tries to only focus on her feet, she is unable to remove her gaze from the door at the end of the passage. An overwhelming impulse to run clamoured at her, but she is weighed down by her acceptance, her willingness, her need to submit.


As she sees her red toenails inside the bedroom, her first step over the threshold, a tingling starts in the small of her back, which trickles down and over her bottom, in between her thighs. She sees the huge window out looking a garden in full summer bloom, the late sun colouring the room in a soft wash of yellow, and as she finally glance at the bed, she sees the pillows neatly stacked, the altar on which she will offer herself, submit to his will, her altar of redemption. Unable to see anything else except the pillows waiting for her, she feels her nipples become firm, hardened peaks rubbing against her dress. She feels her bottom tingle and ache in response as the mixture of fear and anticipation creates a moist warmth within her. She can barely breathe, but feels alive, aware, her body humming with need.

He had let go of her hand, and in a voice so gentle yet harsh, familiar but different, he directed her towards the bed to assume the position. As she stood in front of the bed, she closed her eyes briefly, aware of her body, aware of him, knowing what is to come, the words that will be said in love etching into her soul, feeling the shame of her sins, the cleansing pain of redemption and forgiveness.  As she positioned herself over the pillows, she felt the vulnerability, the exposure, her raised bottom the offering, and with a small sigh, she embraces that which is her submission, her devotion, and her loyalty to him...

3 comments:

Brett B said...

I've been sick---similar to what you had, sounds like. Nice to come back and read this very exciting story. Thanks, Raven Red.

Raven Red said...

Thanks Brett. I am still not 100% but at least there is some type of movement...LOL

Season said...

Hi, Raven!

I loved this piece so much I added it to the Favorites tab on our blog. This describes submission so well - it is the way I experience it, too.

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