As I turn in the final copyedits on Best Bondage Erotica 2012, out in December (and hopefully a little early and here just after my birthday, November 10th) here's another excerpt from my story "The Weight" (read the first, which precedes this section, here).
Sometimes he just looks at me, stares at me so intently it’s a form of sadism in itself, if you’re the type of girl who shies away from being seen too deeply, from being naked in quite that way. His eyes devour me, shear all the layers off of me, drill into my consciousness as surely as any spell caster. He uses those looks sparingly, thankfully, because I am most helpless when he binds me with them, when he locks me down with a look that I’d be able to see from across the world. Those are the times when I truly know I’d do anything for him, though usually what I do in the moment is cry. Even one tear is such a symbolic surrender that it’s enough to make his eyes at least dim a little, following the tear’s path or going for the spot on my neck he loves to claim.
Mostly Damian likes to break me, to get me to crack so he can put me back together, if he chooses. Knowing he can choose is the spark that fires our relationship, that he can keep me whole, yet aching, or cracked open, raw, his, is the ultimate mental power trip. He likes to talk to me when he knows I can’t answer, at least, not with words. He gets his answer from the rest of me, from the way, when he feeds his fingers into my mouth, I open so wide I’m in awe as four fingers quickly invade my, truth be told, favorite hole. He probes my mouth like an explorer and grabs for my tongue, pinching, pressing, raking his short, smooth nails over it.