Sizzling Sunday: The most erotic scene I’ve ever written – #BDSM #Trust #Limits

I was wondering what to share for this Sizzling Sunday, thinking about which one of my stories turns me on the most. With a twenty-two year long back list, it’s difficult to choose, but one of my most personal tales is Limits: A Love Story, published in D&S Duos Book 1. This story about a long-time, committed, kinky couple exploring the limits of trust and the extremes of desire arose from a thought experiment: if my Master and I had not split up, what would we be like now?

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"Ow! Oh...!" He slides a finger along the wet slit between my splayed thighs, then snatches it away. I jerk against the straps, trying to follow his retreat. "Oh, please..." When he licks off my juices, I nearly come at the sight of his tongue, nimble and delicate as a cat's.

"You're certainly wet enough to make me believe this is what you want. But you know the rules, Becca. You've got to ask for it."

He's almost a foot taller than I am. Normally he looms over me, his massive physicality reinforcing his psychological power, but now he sinks into a crouch, his gaze level with mine. "You can still call this off," he tells me, his voice deep and calm as a waveless lake. "I won't punish you. I won't think less of you. You'll still belong to me."

Something flickers in his chocolate-brown eyes, the merest hint of doubt. I notice a faint sheen of perspiration on his forehead, below the tangled black curls. He's wearing a rubberized apron – the implications making me shiver – so I can't see his crotch. Is he as turned on as I am? And as frightened?

"Do you want to do it?" I whisper, forgetting to add an honorific, breaking out of the scene in my concern for him. There's an ache in my chest, a low-frequency, bitter-edged pain quite unlike the bite of his clamps or the sting of his lash. If he's not sure, how can I be? Have I forced this on him? Long ago he seduced me with his tales of handcuffs and spankings. Now I realize he created a monster.

All our firsts parade through my imagination, an escalating frenzy of sadomasochist indulgence. The first time he fucked my ass (during our very first sexual encounter, but after a long and filthy epistolary courtship). The first time he whipped me. The first caning, first fisting, fire play, golden shower. In our years together, we've demolished one limit after another, only to move on to the next.

I know he cherishes me, that my willingness to explore and experiment delights him. When I surrender, the assurance that I've pleased him brings me far more fulfillment than any physical release he might graciously provide. Now I wonder though, whether I've been topping from below all along.

Perusing his serious face, noting the way his lips press together and his brows knit in tension, I'm suddenly convinced that this is all wrong. I'm pushing him way beyond his comfort zone with my implicit demands for ever more extreme submission.

"I'm sorry," I mutter. "Forgive me, Master."

"What? What are you talking about?" He grips my shoulder, leaning forward, cruel fingers digging into my naked flesh. The slight pain does not distract me from my misery. "I told you, Becca, it's your choice. You can stop this now. You don't have to apologize."

"No, no, you don't understand." My eyes itch as tears well up. Trussed up as I am, I can't stop one from spilling down the side of my nose. "I don't want to stop. But I think you do."

He stares at me for a long instant, confused, before bursting into laughter. "You think I want to stop this?"

I nod, swallowing a sob.

"You believe I don't want to carve my initials into your flesh? Mark you permanently, so that everyone will know you're mine? You think I don't have the guts?" He rises to his feet, towering above me. For a moment I expect a slap in the face. A wave of lust crests and drowns me. I squirm in my chair, struggling for control, feeling the straps tighten around my limbs.

"No, no, it's not like that, Master...I'm sorry...but I've been the one...I'm never satisfied, it seems, always wanting to go one step further, to try something more...."

"More intense." He finishes my sentence for me. "More dangerous. Something that requires even more trust."

"I shouldn't be so greedy, so selfish. You're my Master. You should decide how far we go, and how fast. What I want – it shouldn't matter."

"Ah, but it does matter to me, little one." He strokes my hair, working out the tangles. His gentle touch floods me with a sense of well-being. "I love your kinky mind, Becca, as much as your lush body. I love pushing you – seeing how far you'll go, for me. Discovering the depths to which you'll sink if I ask."

He seizes a handful of hair and drags my mouth to his. His tug on my scalp turns me molten. New flows of searing liquid leak from between my legs. I relax into his brutal embrace, letting the heat rise.

His kiss sucks the breath from my lungs and the last shreds of doubt from my mind. I open, deliciously helpless to resist or even reciprocate. While he devours me, his fingers roam and hover, tracing phantom paths down my throat, circling my navel, brushing across my damp pussy fur to send reverberations through my cunt. I imagine my aching nipples, flashing bright red like landing beacons to beckon him closer. He ignores my breasts, though, as well as my desperate clit, teasing me with barely-there caresses while his fierce kiss continues.

Finally he releases me, leaving my lips bruised and my cheeks smeared with saliva. He stands back, surveying my bound and naked form with obvious satisfaction. My skin radiates energy; I feel as though I'm glowing. His face is flushed, too, and his eyes glitter like diamonds, brilliant and unrelenting. He crosses his arms over his massive chest and favors me with a mocking grin.

"Speak up, Becca. Tell me. What do you want?"

I must be brave. He expects that of me, and I can't bear to disappoint him. Still, it's difficult to actually say the words.

"I want – I want you to cut me, sir. To leave your mark on me. Please, sir."

"Good girl." His palm cradles my cheek for an instant. Then he's gone, over at the sink, washing his hands with anti-bacterial soap. As he worms his hands into the gloves, he murmurs, almost too soft for me to hear. "That's what I want, too."