Archive-name: Bondage/shortscn.txt

Archive-author: Walter Madsen

Archive-title: A short scene





     The room is still, and dark, except for the spotlight

focused on his body.  Sweat gleams from the smooth curves of

his arms, lifted above his head; it sparkles on the hair

curling from his chest; shimmering with the movement of his

breath.  Rivulets form; sweat rolls across the tight muscles

of his stomach, down into the tight pelt of his crotch.

     Walking around him, I see that the sweat is also running

down his back.  It catches momentarily on the sparse hair

across his shoulder blades, then runs swiftly down the rigid

expanse of flesh to his buttocks to disappear into the crack

of his ass.

     I continue walking around him.  He is motionless; the

leather straps around his wrists hold him erect, while the

shackles hold his ankles in place on the floor.  His head is

still, too, though his eyes follow me as I walk, a shadow

barely visible with the light bright in his face.  His eyes,

wide with expectation - and fear.

     He is mine.



     In my hand I hold a whip.  It isn't overly long, just

over a foot; I like to maintain tight control over where the

lashes land.  Without raising it, I can feel it pull against

my hand, its smooth suppleness causing it to sway with my

stride.  I can feel the edges of the braided leather against

my palm, the occasional brush as it gently touches my leg.

     Lifting my arm, I allow the loose thongs to brush across

his chest.  He inhales sharply, seeing it clearly for the

first time.  It makes a soft hiss against his chest hair.

     I lower my arm and continue to walk.



     Three hours ago, he and I were in a bar a few miles from

here.  I was basically ignoring him, sipping on my whiskey;

he'd been circling me for an hour while sucking on a beer.

Getting his courage up.

     Eventually he approached and sat down, starting to talk

like they always do.  I didn't look at him; it was too early.

He had the usual questions:  Do I wear leather chaps because

I ride a bike?  What were all of the keys for?  Why did I

have a leather thong wrapped around my wrist?

     I gave him the usual answers:  I wear chaps because I

like the feel of leather.  The keys are there because I have

a lot of locks.  The thong is there in case I need it.  He

knew I was feeding him a line of shit, but he was willing to

play along.

     Eventually, he worked up his courage, asked me about my

sexual preferences.  Asked me why I enjoy controlling men,

why I enjoy putting them through their paces.  Asked me to

show him what it was liked.

     I told him what he was asking; I don't take my prey

unawares.  I told him that if he submitted to me, that I

don't play games; told him I would own him, body and soul, to

do with as I please until I decided otherwise.  He agreed.

     That was three hours ago.



     I continue to walk around him, trailing the whip across

his naked skin.  I bring it under his armpit, over his

shoulder blade, down his spine to his ass.  I pause, pushing

the tip of the whip deep into the hairy crack, rubbing it

across his hole.  He makes a soft sound, spreading his legs a

little wider and arching his back.  I remove the whip.

     The tips whistle a little, a crackling hiss, as the whip

arches through the air to strike the small of his back.  The

touch so far has been almost gentle; he wasn't expecting

force so soon.  He jumps and squeaks, and I smile.  That was

just a touch, barely a beginning; my whip will whistle and

sing many more times tonight, across his back, his thighs,

his chest; anywhere whim prompts me to strike.  Before the

evening is through, the taut young body before me will be

covered with red stripes, tears running down his face to mix

with the sweat on his chest, begging me to release him, to

let him serve me in any way that pleases me.  By the time I

release him, he will be eager to take my cock in his mouth,

his ass; feverishly eager to do anything to stop my whip.

The sight of my whip will compel instant obedience for a few

days; within a few days more, he will be begging to be

whipped again.  I know these things, because I've done this

before.

     Still smiling, I raise the whip again.



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