Bring me to my Senses

Bring me to my Senses

The blindfold covers my eyes, but I don’t need my vision to know he’s there. The darkness feeds my senses, a formality he couldn’t have perceived. I am not bothered by the dark. Instead, I encourage its embrace, relish its all-consuming pull. Find courage within the whispers of its secrecy.

My silk, floral panties are balled inside my mouth, the taste of my arousal coating my tongue. The musk from his earlier ministrations a reminder and a promise of what is to come. His fingers slide across my thigh, just a breath against my skin. The spark of electricity those tips leave in their wake causes bumps to erupt across my flesh. The pleasure in that moment shifts as his fingers clamp around my skin, pulling and twisting. I release a moan, the sound muffled by my intimate apparel.

The silence presses around me, suffocating yet welcoming, like a sweater on a cold day. Too warm, yet without, the draft causes a chill. It is intoxicating, luring me into drifting away, but I need my awareness on him. He will ensure it.

He circles me, his fingers running lightly over my naked skin. The gentleness of his touch in direct contrast to my nudity, the tightness of the ropes holding my arms behind my back. His presence feels like static in the air, a current that is not able to be seen but raises the small hairs on my arms, sends a shiver down my spine. I marvel at the pull of his magnetism, the way his energy feeds my own.

The warmth of his breath dances across my cheek, the smell minty and sweet. His tongue licks over my jaw, warm and wet, curves around my earlobe, soft and damp, then continues lower, along my collar bone, before his lips latch on to a single nipple. The tug of his teeth feels fierce in the first moment but shifts to a new sensation, something basic and raw. The spreading euphoria relaxes my body but stimulates a new part of me, causing my blood to hum.

No longer a need for the blindfold, my eyes drift shut. My senses are open, waiting for his next touch. Will it be at my center, probing and exploratory, or will I feel the impact of an implement as it collides with my sensitive flesh? I’m given my answer as the crop whistles through the air, the impact landing squarely across each thigh. The resounding slap filling the empty space between him and me.

I hiss as I embrace the pain. The first strike always the hardest to endure, he continues his assault, never landing his instrument of pleasure in the same place twice. A thigh, a nipple, a cheek, return and repeat. The lack of rhythm keeps me guessing, keeps me aware of where I am, and who he is, what we are doing here.

The strikes come faster, harder, mercilessly, until I’m panting. My breathing is ragged and fills my ears with the beating of my erratic heart. The whistles no longer accompany each lash, the only sounds I hear is my heart thumping inside my chest paired with the solid sound of leather connecting with my flesh. The melody is musical, mesmerising. I breathe in a feeling of completeness, release the doubts and insecurities of the day. Here is where I feel absolute, at peace, full.

I’m lulled into that space between here and there, a place where there is only me, the darkness, and the delicious delirium created in his wake. I am weightless here, nothing but everything. One, but all. 

Time has no meaning in this space, there’s no need to keep track. Here I belong to him, all of him belongs to all of me. There is no need for sight, as he will show me what I need to see. Here I will recall his taste and lick my lips as I remember. The smell of his distinct aroma will fill my nostrils, arousing yet comforting, bringing a rush of lustfulness, even as I sink further into that space curated for me.

Here I do not need to hear, as he will tell me what I need to know. His words vacant, but the meaning behind each movement, each motion is louder than he could converse. I do not need to touch to feel. The feeling he invokes inside me is more than I could perceive. The completeness in this time redefines my senses. He is my sixth sense, and here I am free to just be.

To see who else is writing about Sixth sense for #wickedwednesday, click on the badge.

For more about Life of a Kinky Wife, see Submissive Journal or Real-Life.

Looking for some smutty snapshots? You’ll find them in Photography.

Recent Posts