AAkasha
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Melt the Ice
Copyright Akasha 2011
All Rights Reserved
"Melt the ice," Richard told him, quiet enough that I barely heard
him. "Or ride it out. Those are the only two choices you have. Those
are the only two choices I ever had."
Slight illumination.
I ran my hand through Christian's long, dark brown hair. His eyes were
on mine. My attention focused, finally, on something other than the
one standing behind him, behind the chair he was bound to. For the
first time ever, my Richard stood totally free in the same room with
me while my toys were out. My clamps, my gags, my shackles.
Wearing my gloves, meaning business. The cruelty seeping through me,
energizing me. Intoxicating.
Soon it was as if he wasn't even there. Coaching.
As if Christian needed coaching? No. Christian needed mercy. But I had
none for him. His muffled protests just slid through me and pushed me
further.
Candlelight.
Richard fumbling with my compact disc player. Always such a weak spot
for music, this boy, and my bound victim watched over his shoulder
helplessly, trembling still slightly to my touch as my gloved fingers
found my way through his locks of hair.
Slowly, clenching, pulling his face back toward me. When his eyes met
mine I shook a warning finger at him. Slowly, back and forth. His jaw
tensed, his lashes fluttered. This boy was so lost, so far gone, so
totally helpless. He had learned nothing from Richard. Nothing at all.
It was almost too easy.
*****
There comes a point during domination when I am sleepy. It's a very
warm, happy feeling of exhaustion. But I reach it only after
exhausting my emotions, all of them. This means hitting them all
squarely -- from sadism and cruelty to nurturing sympathy and
heartbreaking guilt.
Going to all of those places makes me feel complete. Few can take me
to even half.
Richard could run me through the track like he was driving the course
himself, but that was a learned talent that he developed after many
years, and most of our play in the past year turned into a battle over
who would steer. Who would drive. Who would pick the next stop.
I would want to feel the rush of total control and see him crumbling
beneath me, he would steer me toward a bittersweet corner of my
consciousness where the tears would come without notice.
I would say we were about equal. Sometimes I would win, sometimes he
would. Sometimes he would be too tired to fight it and I would conquer
him quite easily. Sometimes he'd welcome the mindfuck, the
not-knowing, the wallowing in pain and degradation, and he'd openly,
vocally let me drive.
Other times we'd fight tooth and nail until one of us gave in, or we'd
collapse in content exhaustion after a wordless compromise.
*****
Richard trying to teach Christian how to drive was like a parent and a
teenager. Christian was reckless and confused, disoriented, scared. He
had no idea what tools he had and how they could be used.
About an hour into it I didn't notice much of the coaching, I was
firmly in place, in the driver's seat, dangling a pair of nipple
clamps from my finger tip.
Christian sat, breathing hard, staring at me silently. No gag this
time. Wrists locked behind the chair. I was watching his eyes.
Richard was behind him. "Melt the ice." he said.
Christian shut his eyes tight. Breathing. Thinking.
More whispering.
"You're going to melt the ice," Richard told him. "Or ride it out."
"I can't," Christian hesitated. His eyes opened. He looked at me.
Pleading.
I smiled. They rocked on my fingertip.
Richard looked at me. "You aren't going to get through her right now."
I smiled again. Confidently. Yes, I felt it. Total cruelty. And this
beautiful, helpless boy beneath me, locked to my chair, looking at
this clamps like they were death, practically fighting back knowing
tears of dread.
And Richard pushed up his sleeves when I leaned down to my victim.
"You aren't going to get through that. But I could."
I looked at him. A flash of recognition.
Him standing there, arms crossed. Looking at me, almost ashamed.
Wordless, but I could tell what he was saying to me.
"How could you do this to him."
Maybe. Just maybe. If it had been him, if he had been in the chair. If
he had been asking, his lips brushed against my ear as I leaned down,
the perfect measure of breath, the leaning into me and letting my face
feel his hair. And the words, "How could you do this to me."
Maybe.
*****
I think there comes a point, with most submissive men or men in that
situation, where there is no choice but to just accept. There is not
much fight left, there is no will to endure more pain. Pride has no
meaning. Broken? Maybe. I like to think of it as slightly bent.
Twisted to endure for me.
Christian was at that point ten minutes into it. Richard used to take
an hour, two hours to bring there, and he'd still hold on with that
last shred of pride, his reserved energy, his secret weapons.
Heat. I feel strange images of heat when I get to that point. The heat
of the sweat between my fingertips in the gloves, the feeling of heat
between my legs. Straddling his leg, looking into those helpless eyes
again.
"So exhausted, so spent," I said to Christian. He looked at me, head
slightly tilted. Yes, he had been finished from the time we started.
Too much for his first time, maybe. But he endured, and I rode him
like a pony until he was too tired to do anything but look at me. I
ran him ragged, put him through the ringer. Ran him through every
emotion in the book -- fear, arousal, dismay, desperation.
A sweet, pleasant exhaustion is what I felt. But Richard was looking
at me, and we didn't say anything, but we both somehow knew what the
problem was.
I hadn't gone anywhere. One emotion. Power.
And that's not the distance for me.
*****
It was the next day. Richard and I were having breakfast alone at the
cafe down the street. Christian had gone home early that morning,
tired but smiling, his voice a little hoarse, his body a little sore.
We had gone to sleep curled up in my bed while Richard watched
television until he fell asleep on the couch.
Somehow, that just seemed wrong.
Richard was reading the newspaper while he sipped coffee and I was
staring at the people walking by outside.
"I don't feel finished," I said. To no one in particular.
He kept reading, didn't look up. "You didn't finish."
"It seems like I never do anymore. I get to a point and just wear
myself out. I never get beyond that," I said to him. "Don't get me
wrong, it's not BAD, actually it feels pretty good. It's like having
really good, intense sex regularly, but not having that mindblowing
orgasm now and then."
Richard put down the newspaper and looked at me for a second, stirring
his coffee and thinking. "When you feel only one thing -- power -- you
never feel finished. You need to be pushed. You need to be more things
than a leatherclad bitch. You need to be a mother, a lover, a goddess,
a slut, and the one person that can save him. And for it to be real."
"I think you're right, but it scares me that more and more will not be
enough, and I'll never be satisfied. Why couldn't he do it? Why can't
so many people do it? What IS IT that you do?"
"He'll learn," he insisted. "Just give him some time. You overwhelmed
the hell out of him last night. He couldn't think straight let alone
feel what you were feeling. There was no empathy, he was just trying
to hang onto something."
I stared at Richard. Just stared at him. I didn't say anything because
I was looking at how old he appeared. How mature. How much he had
grown up. Remembering that the first time I had him in my control he
was a teenager, barely of age, and he still blew my mind.
I thought of the times he would say things to me, right in the middle
of my headtrip, say things that would make me shake all over and have
to slam my hand over his mouth to shut him up, only to be assaulted
with these crystal blue eyes that could convey betrayal and pain like
nothing else.
How he could whisper my name softly while kneeling, head bowed,
lifting his wrists to me in offering and it would just make me melt.
How no matter how tightly he was bound, how securely the gag was in
place, how tightly the clamps were fastened, how many lashes he had
taken, he would still try. He'd try to take me to those places and not
just be taken himself.
Whether I got him there first or he got me, it would always end the
right way.
He was special because the game we played was a power exchange. Not a
power demonstration.
And I realized that could not be taught, it simply was there or it
wasn't.
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