Author: Bo (c) 10/7/99


She is in the moment.
Her breath, coming slow and easy.
Her wrist bound by silk rope,
Stretched towards the ceiling,
As though she where reaching for her God.
Her eyes, covered in a silk and leather.
Her body draped in lose white satin.
And nothing else.


He moves about her slowly, softly.
She can hear the light sound of his movement.
His quiet breath.
His deep whispers of his intent,
His commands.
And she trembles,
In anticipation.


For he is her God, in this moment.
Nothing but he exists.
Nothing but him, matters.
And as he moves about her,
Touching lightly, gently.
Her nipples harden,
Skin glistens.
Breath comes shorter.
Clit becomes erect.
And she becomes wet,
In sweet anticipation.


He talks of his love.
His uncompromising devotion.
His honor, of her complete,
In whispers.
And by his deft touch.
She trusts him,
Without question, pause, or fear.
For she knows his love is real,
As Is hers.
Unto him she gives up her soul,
And she trembles,
In anticipation.


He touches her shoulder,
White satin, slithers to the floor,
A soft rustle.
And in the long silence,
A sound is heard,
By sensitive ears.
A kind of soft whistle.
That her body knows.
Her mind exalts.
And as her heart beats faster,
She smiles,
In sweet anticipation.


The soft leather cat,
Lays across breasts so precisely,
That only the slightest of stings is felt.
And no mark mars it's passing.
And then again.
And again.
She moans in pleasure.
Her love blossoms,
Like a flower in full bloom.
Body quivering,
As he moves about her,
Laying on the cat.
On breasts.
And buttocks.
And after each strike,
He kisses,
Where he once struck.
And she moans,
In anticipation,
Of his next one.


What is this kind of love?
How does one find its meaning?
Where pain and pleasure meet,
And become one.
Where a man controls,
Her every breath.
And she submits so willingly.
It is something,
No one can define.
No one answer suffices.
That in all ways,
It is the purest love.
The meaning of trust.
And the sweet anticipation.



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