Red or Blue?
I loop my finger into the ring that hangs from the front of your collar. I don't yank you across the room. But I don't go as slowly as you'd like given the small paces your long, tight skirt allows. I move fast enough to let you feel the pull of the leather around your neck, letting you know that the force that's moving you towards the bathroom is external. Though, I suppose I could joke that,
"You brought yourself here," or...
"This hurts me more than it hurts you," or...
"I don't want to do this, but you're making me."
When you know fine well that watching your pupils dilate with a look of "I don't know what's coming next" makes my cock stiffen. It's the uncertainty in your eyes, however predictable the concept of punishment has become-- the look that says abdication of control. Your placing yourself in my hands for better or worse-- mostly for worse. So, I haul you into the bathroom, and point to your skirt in that way that says quite clearly that it's coming off. I watch you peel it down and step out of it.
"Stand up straight"
I circle you slowly, using your pony tail, pull your head back a little like a fine thoroughbred specimen. Standing behind you my hand slides around your waist and down across your smooth, panty-less mound, a finger slipping easily between swollen lips.
I let out a laugh that says, "typical".
I hold my hands around your waist.You feel like I could lift you up like this if I wanted to. Instead my hands start sliding up your sides, rolling your sweater up smoothly the way my foreskin rolls down the head of my cock when you kneel and reverentially, worship it with your mouth.
Sweater off now, I dangle the cuffs in front of your face. Heavy, police issue handcuffs, not that novelty crap. Serious cuffs that have held you in place in bathrooms all over the city. Like the time I handcuffed you to the radiator in your best friend's apartment and fucked your ass at her birthday party while people outside made sarcastic comments about doing drugs faster, and only the balled up panties in your mouth muffled your groans.
This time I tell you to step out of your shoes and into the bath tub, your feet stepping gingerly onto cold porcelain. I tell you to raise your hands, enjoying the way your nipples lift as you hold up your arms and the cuffs click closed, tight around your wrists. And now you're locked to the shower curtain rail-- a curtain which hangs with cold plastic folds like the latex dress I like you to wear to the theater. Formal high fetish.
Next, I slap your ass and cautiously you shuffle up the bath towards the shower head.
"You've been a bad girl, haven't you?"
"Now you have to pay."
As you stand, beneath the showerhead, like Janet Leigh played by Bettie Page, my hand hovers by the taps.
Hot or cold?
Blue tap or red tap?
The same colors as the bruises on your behind. You close your eyes and wait for the answer.
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