“Get on your tippy toes”, he growls to my cheek as he pulls my bound hands upwards, securing them to the ceiling with the rope. I’m stretched out, back arched, my toes dig into the carpet, gripping, trying to find some balance. I wobble about like a buoy being tossed about in a spiraling sea, the rope above me is my anchor to the ocean floor. He runs his rough hands down the edges of my body and I relax into his gentle touch before it will be taken away from me. Before it will become something different, something we both need.
He saunters towards me with a tiny stemmed sipping cup in hand, the amber liquid sloshing about, golden tear stains on the glass glow in the dim light. He brings it to my lips, cupping my chin in his hand and allows me to sip. The thick sweet wine coats my tongue as it creeps its way to the back of my throat and down. A Portuguese Port wine? My mouth is stained with the taste of honey, its pervasive sweetness a foil for what is to come.
“That’s the last break you’ll have for a while. Are you ready?”, I nod as the hood is pulled over my head, the darkness, the sound of my own heavy breathing and the sticky sweet taste that has invaded my mouth and throat, my only companions. Then I feel the long stinging fingers of the flogger as they strike my naked flesh, and I know that I am not alone.