Smutathon Guest post from The Wragger 1: Waiting

[Note: This was written for Smutathon by The Wragger. He doesn’t have a blog, so I’ve posted it here.] 

His eyes are focussed, unwavering in their gaze, watching for the slightest sign, that indication of weakness and the perfect time to strike. To an onlooker, if there had been any, the scene would have seemed dark and oddly sinister.

Two people in the room starkly lit and in utter silence ,she on her knees, naked apart from the velvet collar around her throat, arms outstretched and hands crossed , head bowed and her long red hair covering her face, hiding the concentration in her eyes. He, stood over her, steady in his perfectly balanced pose, statue like steady, yet tense with latent energy like a cat about to pounce at its prey. He had told her of the pose he wanted, yet it wasn’t the pose he needed. The energy it takes to stand still seems incongruous but he knew that at the right time the body would ache and start its moan, building, slowly building, from a whisper to a scream.

That is when he’d make his move and his hand would swiftly deliver its reminder to her of his control. As he watched her he daren’t move. He didn’t want any of his own actions to influence hers. His breathing was soft and shallow, hiding the slightest flicker of his movement from her vision.

And so he watched her , eyes scanning her own breathing for irregular spasms, watching the sinews in her neck for that moment of tension that showed her straining against the tiredness of her raised arms. He strained to see the muscle tone in her arms and shoulders, trying to identify any contraction as the body involuntarily protected itself by tightening the fibres, letting blood flow through it.

His gaze caught that hollow of her breastbone just below the throat, where it glistened with perspiration when under duress, trying to identify moisture which would indicate that moment of surrender would come. He watched and waited, waited in silence , only one objective in mind, never blinking always scrutinising, unaware of time as time was immaterial. The only relevance in this room was to predict and know that precise moment when she thought she could no longer fulfil his command.

No thought was given to her state of mind, her own mindfulness, how she may dread that painful end to this dutiful task. He thought only of her body and the tiniest signal. He was totally absorbed in her. Even the strain he put his body through with his own motionless pose didn’t register. His was the mindset of the predator, where patience and determination sated the hunger and pain that grew inside. Nothing would prevent him from gorging his particular appetite from the burgeoning weakness that would undoubtedly unfold in front of him.

And at the first flutter of it, that is when the prey would be captured. The ambient noise dulled to nothing in his ears. His periphery vision was so narrow he could be in the darkest tunnel. He daren’t even acknowledge the fragrance she wore. Yet he had meticulously noted the shard of light that brightened the blaze of her red hair and focussed on the palms of her upturned hands, fingers curled as if she were pleading for alms. It was if the light reflected from the few square inches of her white palms also lit up the room, the e beam perfectly engineered onto that spot.

Suddenly he saw a tiny movement in her neck, a twitch , a weakening of the resolve. Surely this was it, all of his waiting was about to come to fruition and he’d deliver his reminder of his expertise to her. His hands gripped the long instrument he’d use fingers wrapped tight around it and thumb pressing down on the rim of it. He was ready to strike.

His eyes widened, waiting for the weakness to ripple through her body. Like watching the felling of a great tree. It began with almost impossible slow motion. Her neck started to bend,degree by tiny degree, her shoulder slumped almost imperceptibly but with utter certainty and then followed her upper arms softening and dropping.

And then all of a sudden all resistance was gone and her body slumped, shoulders falling into her torso head lolling forward and arms dropping lifeless. He had his moment. All this waiting and he had at last the opportunity to reminder her of the moment of her utter submission, the e moment of no going back the precise moment when her body gave in to him. He was more alive than he’d ever been: his brain was sharp and his senses alert like he was sensing electricity in the air and his hand sprang got life to do it what it had to capture her.

The shutter button on his thumb pressed and the camera took its one picture, preserving that moment of submission forever for them both.

1 thought on “Smutathon Guest post from The Wragger 1: Waiting

  1. Pingback: Smutathon 2017: Where to find the contributors | Jerusalem Mortimer: Between the Lines

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