A Vignette

[th****]

She lay on the soft carpeted floor, panting heavily as they ran their fingers through her hair. She could tell it was actual flesh and bone this time, not the soft leather gloves she was used to and enjoyed. Although the dark fabric tied tight around her eyes was tight and blocked her vision, she knew the quiet pensive look that was sitting on their face as they carefully smoothed out a few stray strands out of her face. She knew that furrowed brow that betrayed their concern for her and the pools of warmth that lay in those dark brown eyes.
She giggled when she felt their thumb brush past her luscious lower lip and snuggled into the palm that came to rest at her cheek. That was when they softly exhaled and gently cradled her head closer to their body.

“How do you feel?”
“A little wobbly, but I’m doing ok – I think?”
“That’s good, there is a bottle of water at your right. You can reach out for it and I’ll place it in your hand. Are you sure, you want to keep the blindfold on?”
“Mhmm. It lets me pay better attention to the sound of your voice and your touch.”

She didn’t need to reassure them that she was fine, even if the skin on her seat was still ringing from being struck or her knees quivered and spasmed from the after effects of all that transpired. The fact that she was conscious and so affectionate, calmed their mind and verified that she had grown more resilient over the last few weeks. Although they called and styled themselves as her Horror, they didn’t always thrive off of her ***. When she had called them out on it one day, they said that *** was a weapon that showed its effectiveness when it was sudden and unexpected. Constant *** wore down the spirit, and her spirit was just one of the things that fascinated them about their Wild.

Their Wild. That name would escape their lips with a gentle rumble that seemed stolen from the voice of a beast that had faded from memory, many generations ago. “My Wild One” they would say, a finger tip lifting her chin as their lips would kiss her forehead. It wasn’t just a term of endearment for her, it was a name she earned with her indomitable spirit, a tribute to the ever burning flame in her eyes. She had earned the respect of many around her with her grit, determination and drive to keep pushing herself, some of it was given happily – some grudgingly, like taking a single coin from a miser’s closed fist.

Take. That was the one thing her Horror didn’t do to her; they never took anything from their Wild. That was the first thing they promised her: they only asked for what was freely given. They stuck to this principle like it was a truth etched into the spaces between the rings of Saturn. When they asked for obedience, they made it clear that it was meaningless if she did not submit of her own volition. They didn’t even use restraints on her unless she asked them to. They said it was far more rewarding to watch her writhe around holding her wrists against the bed like they were bound, fighting her own base urges to raise them up as her Horror claimed her pleasure. That was the one thing she did pout about to them, as much as they said they would never take anything from her – she did find herself ***d to peak at her pleasure over and over again.

They grinned when they heard that, and with that familiar rumble to their voice and whispered an apology for not being able to contain their instincts at the sight and sound of her. They had become addicted to playing the screams that came out of her like an instrument, falling and peaking at the tip of their fingertips. It was hard not to get carried away when dealing with someone so – pliable.

Well, she couldn’t complain too hard about it in the end. When all was done, and she lay there in a mess, covered in fluids (mostly her own) she knew what she wanted the most. A mind that would go blank to defend itself from being ***d to peak over and over again, would only want one thing. In the end, a Wild One would always want the comfort of her Horror.