It too
is vintage, black velvet, buttoned down the front from the heavy leather
belt I cinch around my waist, to the full sweep of the hem hovering just
above my ankles. Consuming. What if you don’t
stop? Then the source of your pleasure and confusion retreats as
quickly as its invasion. I take your hand. Long wooden rods…yoke-like…iron-ringed at either end…their purpose
beyond my trembling comprehension sit waiting in a not forgotten corner. I take from my plate a slice of chicken breast,
and, taking it from my fork, it begins its journey once again to your
waiting center. And then you feel a slight
tug as the leash is tightened, and my voice tells you to follow me. Knowing your weakness for the
touch of leather on your skin, in fact the touch of any material on your
skin if properly applied, I smile to myself, knowing that such information
may yet come into greater use in our future.
