Miss Rabbit's Playtime

The mind is a blur. Fingers touching lips, sucking, teasing tender flesh, dragging out ecstatic torture. Hands running over smooth, pale planes of skin. The electric contraction through the body as the nerves in my back are caressed, prodded, manipulated to extract mewling cries and heightened screams. Red red marks drawn upon the blank canvas with hands, floggers, canes, paddles. A fist curled in my hair, bending my head to the side, the better to maul my neck with savage teeth; the subsequent moans, the buckling of the knees, the collapse as my vision swims and nothing but the primal claim of my body matters. The softness of a hand on my cheek. The ritual of kneeling, and untying shoes, and eating only when given permission, and handing over total control to another. The liquid heat, the giddiness, the thrill that starts in my chest and finishes deep in my stomach when I hear two words. "Good girl."