Lilac Petals

The day transitioned seamlessly into night, so that when we got up after watching a movie, we were both appalled when we checked the clock. When time passes this effortlessly, I become suddenly aware of every word, every movement, every breath, as if to compensate for the moments I might have missed when I wasn't paying attention.

Master went to the bathroom and I waited for him outside, nestling my body into the corner by the door. When the handle turned and he egressed, I jumped out at him with a squeal. He started violently and recoiled his hands into his chest, while I doubled over with amusement at my little trick. Then, after the brief moment of assessing the situation, he grabbed me and clipped the wrist cuffs behind my back. We both laughed—though my giggles became increasingly hesitant—as he dragged me to the bed, where he lay down and pulled me across his lap. The television screen was flickering and his eyes trailed the moving images, even though his fingers played underneath my knit skirt and jutted into my cunt. I cocked my head toward him.

“Hello,” I said cheerfully when I caught his eye.

We burst into fresh laughter. But when he wiped his wet fingers on my legs, I grew silent and still. I knew he was amused, not angry, but goosebumps hardened along my skin when he brought my skirt over my hips and stroked his palm across my ass.

“Do you need to be reminded about who owns you?” he asked. He raised his palm, ever so slightly, without even moving his fingers, before repositioning it flush against my flesh.

“No, Master.” I turned my head so that he couldn’t see the worry in my eyes.

We lay in silence for a minute longer, until he pushed me off his lap and stood up. My stomach surged with anxiety when he slid his hands through the triangles of my bound arms, hoisted me off the bed and led me to the table. When my hips touched the wooden edge, he pressed his hand firmly into my back, until my stomach, then my breasts, then my cheek were pressed flat against the cool surface. His hand wriggled between my thighs and slapped the insides until I parted my legs and he was satisfied with the distance between them. Then, I waited quietly as he rummaged through the box of toys that I had left out.

The faint scent of manufactured cherry flavour wafted inexplicably through the air, it's source only resolved when I felt Master spread a thick lubricant along the cleavage of ass. Despite the nervous clenching of my stomach, I commanded my muscles to relax and instead of fighting, to welcome the warmth of his touch with the warmth of my rectum. When he slid the anal plug into me, it glided in as effortlessly as the blue sky had dissolved into dusk.

Then, his hands left me and I was left in a pseudo-solitude.

Even though I knew he was nearby, studying me, I could no longer feel his touch or hear his heartbeat. My stomach turned as I contemplated his potential expression and wavered in unsurety about how to fill in the details. Would there be a little smirk, a glinting eye, a furrowed brow? Before I could run through the combinations, he leaned over me and swept away the veil of hair obscuring my eyes.

He smiled.

“I’m proud of you for not crying,” he said.

The gentle upward curve of his lips and the steady blue of his eyes were more beautiful than my mind's illustration could have anticipated. I smiled too.

Only then did the tears start to form. He released my hair, and under the safety of the curtain of black strands, I blinked the moisture back and swallowed the lump that had jumped into my throat. A few months ago, the idea of being owned, of being dependant on another person terrified me. Now, it’s the idea of not being his that frightens me and brings me to tears.