Alone in our room, I wait, this single moment in time engulfing the quiet stillness when I finally stop running, stop moving.
The front door opens and shuts quickly, breaking the silence like an unexpected shattering of glass. This is not unexpected but even so, the sound pulses through the air and causes my heart to race.
Eric's footsteps on Mexican tile mimic tiny glass shards falling to the ground and the quickness of his pace announce that there is no hesitation in his purpose. He enters our room and finds me, seated on a bench, fully dressed in jeans and a long blue flowing shirt. We freeze and stare, into each others eyes like two cats preparing to brawl. We are desperate to release the stress of changing careers and undo the struggles of things gone wrong.
Beside me there are two implements. Sir Strap, the largest and most intense leather item we own, is the closest to my thigh. It was purchased at a time when I was routinely putting words in Eric's mouth, leading us down a path of confusion and misunderstandings. He had only used it twice before the habit was corrected.
This time was different in mood and in purpose. This time I needed a strong bite to reset my mind and push me forward another week and Eric, infused with too many demands and no time to sift through and manage them effectively, needed it just as badly as I.
Eric grabbed the handle and nodded toward the closet. Hands outstretched and fingers laced through the metal shelving between hangers and material, I closed my eyes and tried to relax.
"You know I do this because I love you," he said and the leather flew through the air and crossed both of my cheeks in a long even swat.
The crack of the whip echoed in our tiny chamber and the space instantly warmed. My bottom tingled under the protection of thick denim and I smiled knowing Eric would be able to put real power into his swing without truly hurting me.
The next strike aimed more for the right side of my butt and the tip of such a long sheet of leather wrapped around and clawed at the skin on my hip. Like the end of a towel snapped in a gym locker room, it bounced back and even the jeans did not stop the sting.
"Oh that felt so good," the words were spoken but I really don't know if they were mine or his. We were in sync, the intensity of each strike clearing my mind and releasing his tension.
Soundly whipped; the sixth and seventh strikes were enough to have me leave my post and dance around, catch my breath and set the nerve endings throughout my body on fire.
"You need more, don't you?" This time it was Eric speaking for sure and though he posed it as a question, it was more a statement of fact.
Back to the shelf, fingers holding on tight, Eric let three consecutive swats reign hard upon my seat. The wrap around bit fiercely and I knew there would be a long lasting mark.
We exited the closet and Eric ordered me to undress, with one more small leather strap remaining on the bench. I removed my jeans and thong, facing him and wondering with such a harsh warm-up if the little auburn piece would even make a dent or if instead, it would land on my flesh like a mosquito in summer; unseen and felt by no one.
"All of it," he commanded and I scrambled to get my top off, sensing his impatience with me for not completely following the initial request.
Over to the corner, Eric took each of my wrists and placed them high on the wall. My nipples rested against the cold plaster and a chill ran down my spine, contradicting the heat that was still radiating off my bottom. Using his foot, Eric tapped at my ankles until my legs were spread wide apart and I stood in our game of Charades as though I were strapped to St. Andrew's Cross.
Eric's body was so close to mine, I felt as though we were one. His hand kept me still with sturdy fingers tangled in my hair and his mouth breathed heavy words into my ear; bringing all of my senses to life as I drank in the image he portrayed.
"This is it, Amy. This is you, on St. Andrew's Cross at the Citadel in San Francisco. You can't move, your hands and ankles tied down and you know you need this, know you want it and know I'm the right guy to give it to you."
I realized at some point Eric had picked up the implement and as he continued to whisper into the nape of neck, he released my hair and lightly ran the leather up and down my back, butt and thighs alerting all of the cells in my body to wake up and pay attention.
"The crowd is gathering to see the beautiful girl tied to the cross," he crooned seductively, "and they all want to know what he's going to do to her."
My nipples hardened and licked at the wall in anticipation as sweat built along my back and I grew wet below the small patch of hair casting a shadow upon my clit.
"You've been a very bad girl, Amy" he announces to the invisible on-lookers and the strap goes from stroking to tapping against my cheek.
This small bit of leather, the width of a dress belt doubled up by a fold in the middle, struck my back and thighs igniting a passion between my lover, my mind and the wall.
"You need to be disciplined, Sweetheart," he says and the strap crashes down hard, ten times in number, a thousand times in sensation while Eric continues to stand with me for my entire stay on the cross.
When he finishes, Eric leads me over to our bed and I am bent over wondering if there is more spanking to come. He has switched gears and instead of punishing me, gently kisses each of the angry red rows of welts and the deep purple patch from the whipping. Eric draws a pretty little heart on my right battered globe and then using both hands, he spreads my cheeks and his tongue dances around and dips into my b-hole, the nerves of pleasure setting off fireworks while the heat of the spanking cools down.
A phone rings and we ignore the distraction, letting it go to voicemail. Then a second phone rings and another one buzzes; playtime has abruptly been brought to an end.
I dress as Eric runs out the door, a jaw full of mouthwash and a body primed and ready to take on the world.
I am ready too.