mk**** Posted July 7 Posted July 7 The image is haunting me. Kneeling or on a stool in accordance to your pleasure; legs spread as wide as possible, flute in hand, and in position. A position you instruct with the tip of your cane. A smart here and there, if I falter, across the breasts before the music begins. We’d focus on the position initially, while I relearned the basics. Training my breath to endure through each swat of the cane. Or perhaps from the metal cleaning rod, that I’d later use to clean the instrument. You’d torture my thighs, and that tinder bit of my ass just below my lower back, the soles of my feet, my stomach. Any visible area really. We could even turn lessons on the study of the flute’s anatomy into an experience as you sear the details on my brain through pain association. The crown; as you force my hair undone, bare for you. The lip plate; as you bite and gnaw at my lips, either set really. The embouchure hole; as you coax lush screams that put any vibrato to shame, from my lips. The barrel? Where’s it going? You’ll ask. Insisting that filth spill from my lips as I beg you to shove it inside me. The keys? How many do you already have to me? How many more will you take? Will you play? The head joint, just another piece to violate me with. My mouth will never feel the same touching it, knowing the depths of me that it’s reached. The body… you’ll play mine with a mastery I’ll never achieve with my own instrument. And finally, the foot. An integral part of my character, the need to follow you into the depths of experience. Every step forward, to honor and obey.