by kai
December 1999
Head lowered, gazing up through your lashes, you stare at your lover's huge, dripping cock -- bound with leather, adorned with cold bits of metal -- and you wonder how it will fit in your dry, tight anus. You pray that he will use the oil warming by the fire. But ultimately, you sigh, realizing that if he wants you to hurt, then you *will* hurt. If he wants you to bleed -- if he wants to dye the sheets with your blood, painting your thighs, his thin lips crimson -- then he will, you will. Because, though some evenings, the tenderness of his touch draws forth an ache, a melting warmth beneath your breast-bone, you know that he delights in your pain, the harsh gasps he wrings from you with such exquisite mastery. So you kneel, feverishly, desperately, wrists properly crossed at the base of your spine awaiting his pleasure. Sweat dampens your hair, stings your eyes, tickles your nose maddeningly. And you tremble, utterly silent, as Methos places his sandaled foot on your shoulder, forcing your forehead to the cool tile floor and with dark satisfaction breathes your name: "Kronos."
Cool night air -- fragrant with gardenia, cypress and ocean salt -- brushes your naked, inflamed skin; a moist caress. Head down, eyes closed, you inhale deeply, rhythmically, echoing the surge of restless surf against the rocks beneath the window. And riding the once-bright, slowly ebbing whip-borne pain into merciful, yet mourned dimness, you feel the streams of dried blood across your shoulders -- stippling your spine and flanks -- crackle and flake. With the sea's every exhalation, vibrations sing through the ceramic tiles, through your bare toes as you strain to ease the insistent burn of shoulders, forearms and wrists. As you struggle to keep the chain above your head -- to which you are tethered -- from jangling discordantly and summoning *him*. Yet it is fated that you will fail. That your strength will ebb. That in this peaceful, private space with which he has gifted you (that together, you have created) instead of surrendering to his undeniable mastery -- instead of trusting and *letting go*, as you so ardently desire -- instead, the scent of your blood, the fading burn of adrenaline will call to mind your ruthless, ascendant daylight self. And though you clench your eyes tightly, though you chant the charm his name mindlessly, unbidden -- and desperately unwanted -- shiny, dry scales rustle, slip against one another as the drowsy, rebellious beast coiled 'round your spine awakens. Outraged at your willing submission, aghast and sickened by the trust you have given, it howls, rages. The chain jangles and your eyes open, your head flashes up and you meet his amused gaze.
Damn him!
Your skin tightens against the song of his immortality as he steps close and takes your equally rebellious cock in hand. Your breath rasps (he has given you no water since dusk) and you close your eyes again, avoiding his all-too-knowing smile. But, as you both know, this battle has already been lost. And so, though you struggle desperately -- with arms and legs grown cold and numb -- though your nails and fists mar his pale beauty with purple and black bruises and streaks of blood, you are not surprised when the leash is finally clipped to your collar. When your exhausted, aching body is dragged to the bed, laid face down across his lap -- one hand resting gently upon your neck beneath your hair, the other smoothing lightly over the sweaty skin of your bare ass -- and your cock gripped painfully tight between his thighs.
"Sing for me, Kronos!" There is laughter in his voice.
And with each stinging, disdainful slap, your rage grows. Countless silent crimson hours beneath the lash, under his knife, the uncontested fact of *his* submission to *your* will on the battlefield, declare the paltry strokes as contemptuous insults. But, were you to rise from this shameful, debasing position (as your outraged dignity relentlessly urges), Methos would release you without question. Then you would see the disappointment and sadness in his eyes. Months, perhaps years, would pass before you would feel the icy caress of his blade against your skin again, before you would know his hand at your throat, the bonds on wrists and ankles and the sweet, savage ache of his cock in your ass: you would grow brittle with power, warped and without balance. And so, you give voice to your dismay, to the confusion within. You allow the beast to batter itself senseless inside your skull as your skin heats beneath his skillful and merciless hand and you struggle to find that elusive, still place within where trust and surrender reside.
Finis.