The power of bondage – part 2
He smells like manhood and selfishness.
He looks at me but he sees me with his eyes, not his heart. He has not been broken enough or gained enough of value and lost to be able to do that. The gift of maturity and pain is that when we close our eyes and sit with our grief, it changes us. No eyes see as clearly as those washed by tears.
If he could see, he would see that I am looking through him and seeing an apparition of love lost and who I used to be before my heart was broken wide open because someone loved me. We think that this is all about sex, genitals and eroticism but in practice, transcendant bondage is rooted in love. It is the love pouring out of us that makes this safe for other people. It is the love radiating from our heart that helps them find that inner space where they can let go and float, truly float. It is the love we have felt for a thousand lovers before, or one lover before that allows us to be quiet, patient and still and become the cantilever that their anticipation extends out from. When you know love once, you want to share it with other people as a rite of initiation. Love doesn’t need your body, it needs your mind and your surrender. Love is like electricity. It needs some place to go for you to feel it. It passes from one point to another, always in motion and always seeking ground. Together, we are going to make a closed circuit for love to pass through and loop around in because I want to feel it. I don’t need his body for what I want to give him. He doesn’t understand that yet.
The ropes are tight around his wrists. They are crossed over each other in front of him where he can see the helplessness he has been bound into. This is new for him so I want him to feel a small measure of external safety and control to pacify his fears. He can’t escape but he needs to believe he has a chance to escape, if he is determined enough. He won’t escape. Desire is a stronger form of bondage than any material you could bind someone with. The ropes are reminders and symbols. On his body, they are art.
I lay down on my side facing him. His bound hands are at breast height and he reflexively reaches for them to feel their warmth and softness. My nipples become erect from the attention and goose bumps across the span of my large, dark areola. He is gentle with my breasts and the warmth of his hands feel inviting. I consider what I want to do next and how long I will wait before I do it as I explore his face with my gaze and hands. I breathe deeply as I sort through a kaleidoscope of feelings, thoughts and memories about him, myself and my own desires. I imagine that this compassionate love I feel expanding in me is radiating out like an aura of warmth. It seems odd to feel compassionate love in such an erotic moment but if truth were told, I hate myself for all my failings in character and life. I am nowhere near the person I think I should be to meet my own standards and when I look at myself, I see an asshole. The compassionat love I feel is loving compassion directed at myself so that I can have the ability to be someone different. This compassion and love for him, myself or my memories is the only way to soften and silence the critic tormenting me from inside my own head. When someone else is helpless and trusting me to keep them safe and give them safe passage to another world, I must execute a miracle and rectify myself in my own self-perception. What he sees is simply an attractive woman, a kinky woman, a willing guide or teacher but what I see is me reaching into the depths of my own self-destructive fires and taking hold of my own salvation. If I can do things right here and now, I can redeem myself. Integrity and salvation are the same thing for me.
At least, this is the way I feel sometimes. Other times, it is all and just erotic torment, lust, control and power over his indiscriminate libido. During those times he will have no more value to me than meat to satisfy a powerful, animal hunger. He becomes a helpless insect caught in a complex spider web that prevents him from escaping me or my touch. He is simply an elaborately dressed meal being served to my sexual hunger. His moments of fear that rise up just before panic begins to mount, the smell of his musk as his animal nature arises and he begins to test his bindings to try and escape and realizes that he cannot are all seasonings that enhance this moment. Even the salty smell of his semen as it leaks out from an erection that is swollen with passion because it wants to be used and reduced to the phallic toy for my pleasure is a fragrant lacing of sensual addition. His cyclic moments of bored, confident, calm transforming to anxious, uncertain, arousal move through his expressions like the undulating rhythms of electricity traveling through him. I play with those rhythms at my leisure because they are an instrument of my design.
I shift and pull myself up so that my breasts are at mouth level for him. I lean over and command him, “open” and he does, watching me with large, doe eyes. He is starting to understand, instinctively. I lean down and place an engorged nipple in his mouth. “Suck” I say slowly and as he does, the electricity runs from his mouth through my breast and down to my clitoris. My entire pussy instantly swells up and becomes a lush oasis of slippery lubrication preparing for entry. I can feel it spasm in excitement and I let out a deep and sincere moan. He responds by becoming more earnest and eager with his mouth, hoping to accelerate the bondage to actual genital contact. I respond by shoving my breast into his mouth as much as I can force, demanding that he suck on it harder and faster. I am going to orgasm from this before we even get to physical contact with my own genitals and a smile breaks out across my face because I know that this will be the first of many orgasms I have before our time together is over.