Text originally published on La Férule, laferule.com.

– You want to watch a movie, Dear ?
- Not now, I have something to do. A surprise to prepare, actually.
- A suprise ? Ah, I love surprises ! What's this ?
- The answer, you know her : if i tell you, it won't be a surprise anymore.
– Here I am forced to finish my reading, so…
I pretend to immerse myself in my book, but the staccato of my fingers on the pages gives me away. When our eyes meet, Anton quickly turns his head away before slipping away into the bedroom.
Vlan ! The door slams in its wake.
– I try to read, thank you !
I bet that, on the other side of the fence, Anton blows me a kiss and whispers, “Rache, rattle, my love ! ». I imagine her enhancing her lips with rouge, put on the shoes that I gave her. Their heels rock her ankles until the pain, turn his legs into a dancer's compass, swell his croup and arch his loins. He must be jubilant with discomfort and satisfaction.
Next comes the little red dress, a marvel acquired at a golden price. Cut at the knee, slit at the back and adorned at the front with a gray bow, it seems cut in a chic fabric that, from close, turns out to be latex. Staying in its gangue takes a good quarter of an hour, but the result is worth the fight.

– Back… simpers Anton, wobbling on the needles of his heels.
– What outfit ! wonderful idea, Dear ! You are dazzling.
- Really, you like ?
- I do not like, I love. Approach… Closer, closer ! Nice, this necklace. Padlocks, hearts, a whole program… Oh but tell me, you are wearing panties, at least ?
I see it in her face, my sweet inflections turn her stomach.
- You know I'm fascinated by your ass ? It's gonna be your party, Dear. Take off your clothes.
Anton struggles to get out of his dress. Quick, quickly ! Out of patience, I grab a suspender and pull. The latex yields.
I watch, incredulous, the crimson gape lacerate his chest. A blindfold to hide the disaster and quickly, an order :
- Upright !
I take hold of a dragon's tongue, cruel instrument which I have until now been reluctant to use on my lover. The strap whistles. Anton challenges me with his chin. I slap her calves in retaliation. He screams, surprise and pain.
– Silence or I will gag you ! Non, pire : I stop.
OK, Okay, Anton traffic.
He promises to bite his lips as a small smile twists mine,
he promises to stem his evasions, not to flinch, do not move, not think, not exist,
he promises everything i want, everything and even the worst, on condition that I continue my delicious torment.
Pain is his trophy, the magnificent offering to his executioner.

– You understand quickly, it looks like !
Without warning I bring down the strap on his rump. She makes a dull sound. Between his flesh and the leather, between his submission and my ardor, the latex reduces the burn.
- Straighten up !
The thong wraps around her thighs, of her buttocks, of her belly, of his chest. Once, twice, ten times. Hard commas, irregular and punctuated by pauses, the hollowness of nothing that sharpens his senses by combining them with fear.
When will I knock ? Or ? Comment ?
To desire.
To fear.
Melt.
Stiffen.
Hope.
To shut up.
Beg in it but show nothing.

- So, Dear, you like ?
Yes. Yes. Anton loves madly. At his temples his blood pulses his abandonment, on her neck hearts and padlocks beat the charm. Anton is no longer himself, he is another in a ring of fire.
Rouge, violet, bleu… These are the colors of his submission, the palette of a moment that goes beyond the moment, the intimate rainbow where, more alive than ever, we merge in the blood.
Rouge, violet, bleu… These are the colors of our pact, the one that every day we steal from others to present a good figure. They don't know why Anton winces when he sits down. He and I, we know.
We know the why, the because and the comment.
we know the room, whip and thong, intensity and madness.
We know the enjoyment, fusion and gratitude.

- Advance !
Anton sketches a pas de deux, the ultimate figure of our secret dance.
will against will, he opens his shoulders to offer himself more. Not once will I apologize for going too far. I know that for Anton, my "too far" is a "too close". That crying is nothing, and especially not surrender. So he won't tell me "I'm crying but carry on, please ! but "Mark me, I belong to you ! ».

A blow. yet another.
Anton falls scraping his knee. I crouch down to drink from his wound. The blood draws me a second gaping mouth of amazement and delight.
– Enough for today, Dear.
– Non ! Non !
He crawls, grab my ankles, kiss my feet. I grabbed her by the hair, the arch of the shoulders to the kidneys.
– So you want to be punished ? Really punished ?
I slap him on the fly. He drools on the floor the confession that suffocates him : « make me bend, my love, and fuck me… Oh, fuck me ! »
– Quoi, Dear ? I can not hear you !
- Fuck...
His plea turns into gurgling. My nails burn her face crimson, my fingers wrap around his neck. Anton suffocates, folded, amazed, showered with my sweat and my words :
– Slut, whore, female dog !

Pressure on his throat. Heart, chains, heart, chains, heart. Anton's necklace chants my hard love.
Chains, heart, heart… Anton is my toy, my fucking beast, my receptacle, my adversary and my slave, an empty then full shell adoring my violence. That I strangle him, humiliate, knocks him out, the knock that he would yell "YES ! », YES to everything in order to better be reborn in my arms, bruised, bleui, soiled and splendid.
- Yes, Yes, OUI, OUI !
Anton shouts his submission, descends its currents until vertigo to reach the shore that, only, he would never dare approach, dives into the abyss that sucks it up to spit it out better. A chasm that would kill him, perhaps, so what ? I can love it and kill it, kill him because i love him or love him because i kill him.

Here he rolls, all soft between my arms, then cough till you vomit. When I release it, padlocks and hearts fall on her lap, harmless. Anton sketches a trembling parody of a smile. I stick a pointed heart in her nipple then dislodge it to better replant it there.
Anthony shouts. Quoi ? I do not know anymore. maybe nothing.
When my dick lacerates her belly, he bellows his happiness like a cat being slaughtered. In force, all his strength contained in the pulp of his fingers that scream at me "I love you to death".

Epilogue.
Standing in front of the bedroom mirror, Anton cherishes his bruises. They are his trophies and his reminders, the derisory ornaments of our bond and the hope of seeing it last. Me, his Devil, I gave them to him in a dizziness. Me quitter, Anthony can, Yes. But forget me, he can't. In him I opened a door that only asked to be pushed.
If the marks of my whip will fade from his flesh in a short week, mine will never fade from his memory.

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© Madame Lule, cannot be used, in whole or in part, without my permission.

Photo by Loren April ; model : Longed for.