Gabrielle Aplin ~ Salvation
You are the snowstorm

I’m purified
The darkest fairytale
In the dead of night

“Strip!”

An order given, leaving no room for ambiguity, no room to doubt the warning in His voice.
Such an order always makes me feel
vulnerable
I don’t like to be watched as I’m thus exposed.
But this time I do it without question, without trying to find a way to delay.
His demeanour, the intonation boldly expressed, tells me that now is not a time to play games.
Expectation is clear, obedience is not presented as merely an option.

He defines for me the evil of which He spoke, and my mind pirouettes, pivotting wildly off centre.

Gravity provides for me clarity, pulling my mind back to Him, and I struggle with futility as He makes true His threat. My legs are restrained as He straddles my body, holding me in place, as the Hitachi buzzes menacingly at my clit.

“You’re to count each orgasm, out loud” He says, but raw emotion has swallowed each word I possess, and I know this is something at which I will fail.

My world becomes a blur then, sensation relentless, loss of control inevitable as orgasm after orgasm is cruelly forced from me. My only thought is to wonder at what point punishment will be delivered for my lack of verbalised counting, although such a thing never came to fruition.
Maybe consideration was given for the state I was in, I don’t know. Only He could answer that.

An hour of this torment He promised me, an hour of screaming, of feeling, of lamenting each resented moment which led me to this point. I cried savagely for me, I cried with regret for Him, delighting in each orgasmic build up, screaming my pain as the Hitachi was pressed so harshly against me in the seconds after I crashed.

I clawed at the bedding, at myself, but never at Him.
That would not have been allowed.
I hid my tear streaked face behind my hands, I found solace in the place I mentally took myself to as I endured each torturous moment, repeated ad nauseum.

Keeping count I had been doing in my head, and I know that by the time He spoke to me, I was at orgasm 23.

“Can you guess how long you’ve had?” He asked, and I shook my head. I had no clue, my perception of time I’d lost along the way.

“Twenty nine minutes”

And now I was stuck there, with that number on a loop, His voice echoing noisily somewhere in the distance amongst the commotion of my mind.
From that point on counting wasn’t an option.

29.
29.
29.

Each orgasm thereafter assigned that figure.

My recollection of everything from that recorded point is decidedly hazy, I know not what He did, what He said, if indeed He said anything.

All I know is that my cunt still pulsed for a long time after my hour was up.
My clit was on fire, I had, twice, almost reached the point of uttering a safeword.
I recall the warmth of His body as He held me tight to Him, soothing my sorrow filled sobs until my body became still, peacefully surrendered, in His arms.

N