The following was my submission of erotica for the PervyPerv "Moment in Time" contest on FetLife. It was the runner-up winner for the month of April. The idea was that, since a picture says a thousand words, we were to either submit a photo, (which Bob did do, but it did not place, unfortunately,) or a piece of erotica in a thousand words or less, that captures a single moment in time. Since I take pleasure in arranging words creatively, I decided to attempt to capture a single moment in time, in exactly one thousand words. Here's the result:
Enraged from the unnecessary patience that I had been forced to expend upon my subject as he stumbled his way to the bed, I inhaled the stench of liquor and cigar smoke from the strip club reeking on his clothes from across the room. When I looked at him, he was a grotesque portrait of the man he might have been the day before. That man had worshipped my body and my body alone. When his eyes met mine, I saw that the man before me was one who had become impatient, and in his waiting state, his lust for a Moroccan poledancer walking into her workplace while I was still out took over and drove him to follow her with his credit card in hand. This man let himself forget about his loyalties, and now lay before me in a drunken stupidity, unaware of what ramifications his actions had.
From the blissful look upon his face, it was immediately clear to me just how little he knew that I was capable of damaging him. He was too eerily calm and tranquil while I was tying him down to have possibly been conscious about any of it. It wasn’t until he felt his own bullwhip smacking against his exposed thighs that he even so much as glanced in my direction, and when he did, something snapped inside of me. His blue eyes softened to plead with me when he felt the powerful sting, and my bright eyes turned cold as I made my transformation into the merciless mistress he never before realized he needed. I felt my newfound responsibility to teach him what it means to take advantage of another human being. He had taken advantage of every woman who had ever laughed at his jokes, every woman who had ever shared a cab with him, and every woman who fell for the innocent look in his pair of baby blues that he had so masterfully perfected the ability to present on cue after years and years of practice, but he would never get the best of me. He had tormented women I knew and cared for, and by not realizing that I already knew exactly what he’d done, he made it easy for me to turn the table on him.
Now was my chance. Now, with his limbs stretched to their limits and tied neatly to the legs of the bed, I stood over him with all the power in the world to alter his destiny. I could easily have killed him, walked away calmly, and never been caught. After all, the concierge didn’t know where I was from or what I was doing in Paris. No one in this hotel down the street from the Moulin Rouge had any way of knowing where I would go or how I intended to get there. It could have been so easy, if I didn’t long for his survival and remorse.
So I remained at the edge of the bed that was ours for the night, I stood proudly in my tight vinyl dress and fishnet catsuit with a sense of superiority over the helpless and intoxicated man who looked at me in fear. For perhaps the first time in his entire existence, a woman was able to make him feel inferior. I basked in the glory of being that woman. I inhaled all of his wretched odor, and I withdrew the pitiful glances from his eyes as he hoped that they would change my mind. In my perfect make-up and five inch stilettos, I was a queen and the man struggling beneath me was my servant.
The second that the whip made contact with his flesh, everything he thought he knew about women changed. In that brief period of time when our eyes met, I sucked out every ounce of power he thought he had and claimed it for myself. Now, after the notion of taking over him had transformed itself into a real, solid fact, before the thin leather tail even lifted from the space that was mere inches from his limp manhood, I allowed my transformation into a dominant sexual temptress commence. I gave permission to the lioness who’d been clawing at my intestines to finally come out of my gut, into my mind, and through the flick of my wrist that held this glorious black weapon of degradation and destruction.
I became one with the prowling creature who had been living inside of me, suppressed, for all these years. I looked down over my prey and instinctively realized that my survival depended upon my ability to devour him thoroughly. I needed to have him immobilized, in anticipation of the worst, unable to ask any questions or open his mouth to scream. It was my duty to bring him beyond what he conceived to be his limits and to the edge of his real boundaries so that he could learn to submit.
While his eyes were still pleading with me, he was not only unable to convince me to release him, but also unable to demonstrate that he might be worthy of release. Those eyes had practiced widening themselves to soften the hearts of his conquests time and time before, and I was not yet willing to believe in their potential sincerity. He had not suffered enough to know what it means to beg. He had not endured enough to understand the true virtue of patience. He had not experienced enough to learn how some one else may know what he needs better than even he, himself, thinks that he needs.
I was the one who knew his needs. He needed to learn selflessness. He needed to feel remorse. Above all else, he needed to learn to submit. Somehow, I knew this about him. In my brief time with him, I was able to see this need, acknowledge this need, test this need, and now begin to meet it. There, towering over him, the whip completed its lash.
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