Fierce

This week’s beautiful image by the Barefoot Sub is part of the inspiration for this little bit of writing. Another comes from this week’s Sinful Sunday posts of beautiful fierce women. Not sure entirely where this week’s narrative voice comes from, except we share aesthetic pleasure inspired by some of the same things. And then I managed to sneak some lovely playtime, so I’m feeling inspired by medical staples this week. If this is up your street, try Kink of the Week, on this theme this fortnight.

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We are taught by societal convention there is a perfect woman. Perfect femininity.

Her skin, velvet smooth beneath my fingertips, unmarked, unblemished is part of this image. The only part. Value is given to pale beauty that intimates untouched purity as much as it does temptation.

We are taught that the curve of her waist and hip should be soft. Enough to cushion their partner who is angular and hard. Not too padded though. That a fat woman could ever be considered attractive is fetishized or given cultural overtones of wealth and greed.

Fuck them all.

Her unblemished skin is only of interest to me because I get to mark it.

The way her body takes rope gives me aesthetic pleasure. Not just restrained but segmented. Portioned. Flesh blooming in cushions between the neat, taut lines. Her body talks to me. Rolls of soft flesh around her middle that quiver as she laughs. As she comes.

That laugh. There is nothing pure or innocent in the joy and mischief she can communicate in a giggle.

She giggles now, as I balance astride her. Relief that we have reached this point. Nervous anticipation of what comes next. Jiggling boobs and gasped breaths.

My woman. Spread beneath me. Beautiful.

I will work to the death to deserve the confidence she shows in me when she gives her body over to my keeping. She inspires ferocity.

Comfortable with being bound, too comfortable sometimes, rope is often a decoration. Not tonight. She would have lain across the bed like this if I asked it of her. Stretched her arms above her head and crossed her wrists. Dangled her feet from the knee so she couldn’t push up. But there is a difference between her holding a position and me creating it. Insisting on it. Enforcing it.

Tonight there is power in the taking.

She licks her lips, hoping to entice a kiss. I give her one, taking the pale crest of her breast into my mouth. The lovely softness before resistance. Skin tightening reactively against my tongue. Filling my hands, I smoosh them together, trailing kisses and nibbles and bites, dipping my tongue into the crevasse of my own making.

I feel her tremble between my thighs. Laughing.

Glorious.

I bite down. Tilt my head to glare at her beneath my lashes, giving her the visual of her heavy flesh suspended by stretched nipple from my grin-exposed teeth.

The giggle turns breathless, and within the confines of the rope she tries to arch. Eyes widen. I revel in the experience, ever new, of leading her from easy intimacy to something sharper. Even when she knows its coming, knows our plan, there is surprise when we meet that edge.

Opening my mouth, I let go and feel the bounce. Stay with the slight wince that tightens the corner of her eyes as blood rushes back to bruise. With her solid gaze that tells me she is with me here. Walking the tightrope together.

There is a shared concentration between us as I unroll a length of tape and pass it behind her neck and under her boobs, bringing them together to create a tighter cleavage. A few minutes of creativity later and I can sit back and admire my hand-made demi bra cutting into and taming their fullness. Pause to take photos.

I turn the screen to show her. All those little expressions that run across her face. I run my finger down the place I know has brought the hint of frown, where a messy ridge of swollen creamy breast overspills the sharp edge of tape. Pinch the purple tipped nipple I’d bitten, knowing how much she loves the bruises.

All of her. I want her to love all of herself. To see beauty in the curve and crease.

I want to see my marks, add them to the final images of this evening. Take my time sucking and biting and pinching. Playing with the gift of nature which are her nipples. How they stretch. Tighten. Flush and bruise. Crenelate into puffy peaks like thick icing and sweeties topping the best fairy cakes.

A work of art. The fake whirr and snap of the camera captures my view and my mind races ahead picturing the images edited to highlight the unctuous richness of her body and the cruel touch I brought to it.

Desecration has rarely created a more perfect image, and yet, I feel there is scope to improve.

Cheeks flushed and wet mouth open she is beautiful. Tears weave a damp trail to her hair. I kiss her to savour their salt.

Wiping my kisses from her skin feels cruel in a new way. Clinical. The crisp antiseptic biting through the heavy scent of our combined sweat and lust. Stripping her feel from my fingertips. The moment shift from organic to mechanical, from lust to process, but her eyes on my face don’t lose their need. Her body focuses on disinfectant dampened skin, breaths even but shallow.

Satin ribbon lies precisely across her chest. Tonight, she had an image in mind and I will create it. This is not completely new to us, but this is the first time face to face. First time those reactions will be laid bare, untranslated, for me to read. The dichotomy of wanting to have first sight of the metal piercing her skin and of watching that moment in her eyes is unexpected.

I line up the staple gun across the ribbon and realise I can have both. Hold her gaze, before squeezing the trigger handle.

I know that first release that I will always want to be working on her front when we do this. However beautiful the patterns on her thighs or back, I want this. The everything of her reactions from the tension in her limbs to the sound that doesn’t know how to mark the surprise, is topped by the flash in her eyes that takes us from anticipation through sensory invasion to that look. That look that is indescribable and makes me ache for her.

Her skin barely flushes around the entry sites. I smooth the ribbon and place the gun again.

Squeeze. I wish this shared the false sounds of the camera, because I notice the silence where I expect the heavy mechanical clunk of a desk stapler. Would like the metal puncturing her body to come with more fanfare.

Carefully I fold the ribbon to create a laced pattern. The image she wanted was of tight lacing, but straining the catch points will make her hiss with the sting. I only want that sound when I want it, not accidentally.

Place the gun. Catch her gaze. Squeeze. Fold the ribbon.

We are in our own bubble, our whole focus the framed by her captured arms and the shiny tape.

Place the gun. Catch her gaze. Squeeze. Fold the ribbon.

Her breath barely hitches. I jostle the ribbon through the hoops, pulling it more snug and feel my face crease into a smirk at the slightly strangled moan she emits. It is funny to feel more connected to her body than my own.

Place the gun. Catch her gaze. Squeeze. Fold the ribbon.

Tie the bow.  Capture the photo.

Her skin demarcated by rope and bondage tape. Cream velvet stretched over generous, ripe flesh. Marked, bruised and pierced with dull metal staples. This beautiful image.

My perfect woman.

If you’ve enjoyed this fictionalized experience of staples, please check out the two companion pieces, Date Night and A Staple of my Life

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