Dark Steamed Milk

she lay on the table. silent, vigilant, hopeful that light would touch her soon.
it did not come.
for her there was no end to the night. she would be shrouded without the slightest moment of freedom. no twinge of hope or balance. all was there laid out.

her trap was her soul - ambiguous desire that had haunted her and the lack of touch on her soft black skin. no one understood the night like she did, the touch, the feel, the smells....the sound. The sounds of metal - scratching razors and the cold taste of steel. leather smell - so soft, so focused, and bringing to her the next level of what she could not know nor feel.

her body was cool - her soft skin felt the cold air around her. Legs were spread. Open to the One she had given herself to. there was always solace, always comfort and always a safe harbor. but tonight no quarter was to be given. the caress of satin gave way to binding and what was free and pliable was now taught and constrained. No quarter indeed. drops of rain hit the window outside and the air was warmed only by dim candle light. she felt the cold upon her, on her stomach, her thighs, her nipples now hard with the need to be touched. Ever so gently at first. and between her legs...the wetness, the nectar dripped waiting - glorious golden love like sweetened honey. she shook and squirmed and dreamed of his touch, his lips on her neck, following the curve of her nape....to the lobes, the whisper of his voice, his words, his wanting, his command. she remembered how he loved her lips - how he told her they were moist. how he loved the feeling of her cold breath as the tongues intertwined and her body heaved and she came in a flash of blinding light. 

guidance is provided. lessons learned. tonight there would be no quarter. wrists, ankles were now shackled. eyes to be closed. mouths that could not speak. her wetness grew for him and a single tear fell.