Past Present by Secret Narrative Page B

of the butterfly, which alights the blooms I bought because their scent reminds me of you. They open cautiously and shiver in the sudden chill. I shiver for you.
    I read your parchment note, absorb the instructions and set the camera on the tripod. I take the remote when I’m ready to start, and position myself in perfect symmetry. The molten core between my thighs melts towards the lens and I play for you, sending a symphony via disc ready to play and replay, to fill the dead time that we are apart.
    A parting. Reminiscent of a classic film, the two of us in the impersonal terminus of a busy station, the hustle and bustle of humanity, swelling around us, and we’re isolated. An island of agony, separation beckons with bony digit, a crone of malevolence, the afterglow of sex hangs in the air around us. I inhale, needing the smell of you, the unique aroma that is unique to you. The perfume of our coupling a scent like no other, clinging to me, limpet-like, in the walls of my heart.
    I’ll drink us, deep. Slake my thirst, as I have so many times when you plunge into my collared throat.
    “I am yours, and you are mine. You possess me as no other,” I say into the void.
    My ownership of you is sans domme, whereas yours of me is all of me. I need your essence as air to my lungs. My collar is your brand, but I need something, something more, a tangible, everlasting mark of ownership and I fish around for the elusive fix, which will make my heart beat even faster than its pace when you whip me.
    I love the slash of your leather belt on my flesh; adore the bitten skin of my submission, your teeth as kisses on my willing flesh. You trace the raised welts on my curves. Perhaps, if you strike again and again, every day, they will stay; the marks of your ownership. I need you to eat me, swallow me whole, I want to dwell in you, inside you. Crawl under your skin. I want to reside in your living skin, our cells melded. I understand what a real marriage is. It’s not just two people at a wedding; it’s a welding of soul to soul.
    My legs are spread for the camera. The iris at my core gripped by the tight band of muscle that surrounds her, awakening, orgasm tingles in the distance, I strive for it before I remember your instructions. Reaching beside me, I retrieve the slim vibrator, smooth, purple, the depths of colour fascinate me before I sheath it, slowly, for your viewing pleasure, she swallows it up, deep inside. I turn it on; allow the buzz while I settle again. I want to writhe, lift myself onto hands and knees and point my bottom towards the lens, pull my cheeks apart, display my anus, show you the part of me you love best. Your plundering self loves to bugger me, especially when I’m restrained.
    “I wish there were three of me,” you say, moving your long, thick, shaft deep within me. “If there were, I would be able to feel me in your rectum as I fucked you, and you would suck me at the same time. Three cocks to pleasure you, each pierced with a ring for glee and to remind me that I’m yours whenever we are apart.
    The thought of our fucking, when you had me in the cellar, over the table, transports me to our last encounter. A long time ago, a lifetime ago, the ghosts of our walking selves, trod paths that led us to the lakeside and I blew you in full daylight, with just a little shelter from the abundant Rhododendrons.
    You love to display me in public, demonstrate your ownership. There is no embarrassment when you attach the leash to my collar and lead me where you wish. You relish the stares of others as I walk behind you, Geisha like, my steps small in teetering heels that make normal walking impossible. My shoes, my clothes are made for the bedroom; you ensure that I am dressed for sex as often as possible, even if occasionally, convention dictates a cloak of formality.
    Beneath the demure layers, my sex seethes and bubbles. You are like acupuncture, a long, thin needle inserted at key points in the skin which