The PLeasure Principle


Slowly, lazily, you run one finger tip along the length of his spine. He writhes at your touch, his back moving up to meet your touch. You lean forward, your lips almost touching his ear.
“Don’t move” you whisper and he is still.

You dip your head, hair brushing against his shoulder blades and gently, carefully, using the very tip of your tongue, you trace tiny circles down his back, he moves again and this time you are firmer, lifting your face away from his body, one palm pressing him back onto the mattress.

“Remember the rules” you say.

Deliberately you stretch across him, reaching out for the items you have arranged out of his sight.

You pick up the glass, allowing him to hear the chink of ice cubes and then, with no warning, you press a piece of ice into the small of his back.

He jerks away, makes an inarticulate yelp of surprise

“Shhhhhhhh” you allow the sound to continue as you paint shapes with ice up and down his spine, the skin quivers against the cold.

You reach towards the bed side table again, quietly, so that he can hear every sound.

You strike the match against the bed head, non-safety, you had to seek them out.

The smell of sulphur is immediate , strong, he moves away as far as he is able to, suddenly tense, unsure.

You light the candle and with the other hand you push the back of his head into the pillow, making sure that he cannot see what you are doing, but you know that he can hear everything, smell the warming wax.

You press another piece of ice into the natural dip which is the small of his back, the skin puckers with the sudden cold and before the ice can start to melt, make the skin damp, you carefully drip the hot wax into the frozen space.

His body arches, a moan of shock, and you are quick to move in again with more ice to cool the already setting wax.

Gently, you dip your head to kiss him, the base of his spine, his shoulder blades, the nape of his neck, the top of his head.

He moves his head towards your mouth and you allow this and finally you carefully unknot the scarves that have kept him so still and let him fall into your arms.


About cathi rae

50ish teacher & aspiring writer and parent of a stroppy teenager and carer for a confused bedlington terrier and a small selection of horses who fail to shar emy dressage ambitions. Interested in contemporary fiction but find myself returning to PG Wodehouse when the chips are down View all posts by cathi rae

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