Beautiful Images

There is nothing so beautiful as a woman in the throws of orgasm while tied or chained so her thrashing is confined and directed inward. It amplifies the orgasm, makes it cycle inside of her and the strength and vitality of that image can make even the most ardent cynic believe in a master craftsman fashioning the perfect form in the most perfect state.
Watching her moan and cry out, a desperation born of primal need and her higher senses lost within her passionate throws is the application of perfection made mortal. An angelic form, locked in lust and desire and held down by rope and her own subjugation is a greater sight than any artwork or creation of man.
She holds herself proudly, she has a keen mind, a rapier wit and all the charms and persuasion of a master negotiator. She’s a fighter, a good one, a warrior whose arena is the office, the schoolyard the day to day gladiatorial melees that come with modern living. She wins those fights.
She bends corporations to her will, she molds the future, she creates and endures and rises to the top and takes all that, gathering all that power and will and grace and lays it at the feet of a Master who will help her turn off her mind, release the beast she keeps locked away and keep her safe enough that she can let the animal run free.
She calls him “Master” and kneels, naked and trembling, not in fear, but in anticipation of that glorious moment after the bonds are tied, after the flogger makes her dance in the bonds, after the fires are ignited with the whip and the belt and the mind fucks that break down the walls the world has made her raise. That glorious moment when she can go sub-primal, where words don’t exist and lust becomes a tangible feeling and desire is the extent of her world. When she screams and pulls on the ropes and tears the device she’s strapped to.
That moment is where the primal self lives and loves and breaths and where and when she is the most vulnerable. Where she cries and laughs and reaches for that core she buried over the week and pulls it out like a livid and feral beast.
Where he has made a safe place for her to feel the pull of desire.
And when it’s run it’s course, and she falls endless into the stygian existence of subspace, when she is held and comforted and protected and told over and over how wonderful she is. Then she believes him. Then she sees through his eyes the wonder she is. Her body shakes, her eyes glaze and she can slip away on the clouds of Morpheus because he is there to see to her, to care for her, to protect her.
To be the master of such is daunting, but rewarding. For such a creature as she, in the world and in her feral state to call him “Master” is the sweetest sound he could hear.
He will unlock her again. He will break down the walls again. He will help her rebuild them again, but he will rebuild them from inside. She will never be truly alone. Master will be there with her, a talisman against the growing clouds of responsibility and obligation, he will be a part of her, belt in hand, rope to the ready and open arms always.