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Friday, February 10, 2012

What's your idea of romance?

Ah, February…and Valentine’s Day. Chilly nights, warm fireplaces, two bodies pressed close together—the month is ripe for romance.
And if your idea of romance includes leather, submission, domination, restraints, and perhaps the electric shock of a whip applied to one’s skin, my story Fugue, published by Amber Allure, may be just the kind of twisted love story you seek.

I don’t write much BDSM, but this story called to me. I wanted to play with two ideas: one, the shifting of power in dominant/submissive relationships (dominance does not always equal power) and two, the idea that sex is never centered between the legs, but between the ears.




Who is the master and who is the slave?

In Rick R. Reed’s tortuously sexy short story, you might not always know. Fugue takes the brave reader into the dungeon playroom of a master and his boy. It’s the kind of place where “darkness skitters into corners, hiding in shadows where the walls disappear.” A boy is chained to the pipes along the ceiling. Hooded, he can only experience the sensations his master delivers with his whips, fingers, tongue...

But in the boy’s mind, a dream state takes him places even the master could not imagine...places where the established pecking order is turned upside down. As he’s being deliciously whipped, tantalized, and tortured, the boy takes a mental journey on a late-night train where his adventures are even more raw and erotic than what goes on in this very dungeon.

Come along for the Fugue...and answer for yourself the question: who is the master and who is the slave?

Excerpt

...Shackles embrace my ankles, keeping me anchored to the cool, damp floor. This sense of immobility ratchets up the tension and anticipation, and these feelings war within me, causing tingles throughout my body in much the same way as the restraints holding me in place do. I ache for something to happen, yet know I am powerless to bring anything about. Patience is a virtue I have learned, honed in its tutelage now for several years.

Ever since I met my master. That man of mine. The one I love. The seer and deliverer of pain, of pleasure, of love…and discipline.

Waiting. Anticipation pulses like a drug, pounding and surging through my body, binding me more thoroughly than these cuffs, chains and shackles. The air against my naked body is especially cool, its dampness almost like a second presence, like an icy caress. Part of the chill comes from the fact that I am bereft of hair; earlier, he shaved me clean, right down to the hair that sprouts between the cheeks of my ass. He has clamped my nipples, and the bite of the steel hurts and, at the same time, keeps me in a constant state of arousal. My balls hurt as well; he has pulled them low with metal cuffs that twist around the top of the sac, gripping and tugging….a constant, dull ache.

This is true love.

Yet all this dull sensation of pain is but a prelude to the full symphony of hurt that’s on its way. I keep my eyes shut tightly; a lazy smile moves across my lips, disappears.

Waiting. Anticipating. Almost overriding the pedestrian ache of my constraints is the roaring of my blood in my ears, the pounding of my heart, the quickening of my breath, all of these racing with each little noise I hear. My mouth is dry with want, with need. I almost ache to shout out into the murky light: “Hurry! Hurry! I almost can’t bear you making me wait like this. The anticipation is too much. It’s torture even I don’t want. Hurry!”

But I don’t dare. I keep my own counsel and stay mute. A good slave knows his place, knows when to groan, when to scream, when to whimper, and when to sigh. And now, in this waiting, is not the time.

Behind me, my master busies himself, arranging lashes on a table: cat o’ nine tails, bullwhip, riding crop, and even a wooden paddle with holes drilled in its smooth oak surface that transports me back to junior high school. I remember being in seventh grade detention, the paddle whistling through the air, singing through those holes as the gym teacher, Mr. Wright, brought it down hard on my adolescent ass, not knowing that the pain he was delivering was also filling me with the most delicious pleasure, or that my dick was hard and dripping in my jeans. Had he known, would he have continued?

Would it have been a kind of pleasure for him, too? Thinking about such a prospect makes my dick hard even now.

My master comes up to stand behind me, firm touch of his hand on my chest, then moving away. His hands are warm and strong. I am his.

I smell the leather: deep, musky, manscent.

Leather aroma deepens as he pulls my head back and I close my eyes. Leather fills my senses until it’s all that exists. My master slides the hood over my face, obliterating this dusky space where we will be together, making me his and his alone.

Darkness...

Available at Amber Allure:  For KindleFor Nook:



Note: “Fugue” also appears as part of my print paperback collection, ON THE EDGE, which is available here:

Contact Rick R. Reed



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