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You've come to rely on the predictable, rhythmic pain inflicted by my palm to keep your sanity...
The etymology of the term ‘metronome’ comes from the Greek ‘metron’, for ‘measure’, and ‘nomos’ for ‘regulation’, or ‘law’.

Measured application of the law.

Predictable; fixed; rigid; relentless.

Designed to make you anticipate and react to the beat of the music, so that the orchestra plays together. So that even when the score demands syncopation and swing- notes played off the beat- you still anticipate the next ‘takt’, and prepare yourself, subconsciously (but completely) for the next note that you know will come, whether you are playing, or not.

Your head is a perfect contradiction. On one hand: determined, driven, certain. You know who you are. You know your mind. Your outward desires and reality are as clear as day.

And so you resent and revile your own baser instincts- your tearing, teeth-on-edge irritation at yourself that your own wants and desires pull you off the predictable, relentless beat, towards your off-beat, fallible pulse instead.

Because, your pulse is racing and slowing: not based on your own free-will, but upon mine.

That little prick. He’s always winding you up. Where does he get off? Stupid, slathering, letchy arsehole. Fuck him. Why don’t they listen? They never listen. Their arrogance is so see-through. They don’t know anything. Why has this cunt pushed in, in front of me? No fucking manners. Why can’t she just calm down for five fucking minutes? Dick. Keep breathing. Show him. Show them. Why are the decisions always on me? Why do they all fuck with me? They can’t fuck with me. Any of them.

Panting, not at what I'm doing, yet, but at the shadows and echos of the outside world and your 'real life', in your head. The moronic letch who makes obvious comments about your private life. The treacherous 'married' who, adored by most, sidles up to you and would 'accidentally' brush his grey-slacked penis against your arse in the coffee queue, if only his gut didn't obscure it. The tedious spinsters who whisper behind their own cunt-stained fingers at the only girl in the office who's 'getting any'. If only they knew half the truth. How this noise and chaos gets dealt with. How your muscles squeeze around my fingers when my palm delivers the searing, stinging relief you need, almost as much as the orgasm you know will follow.

The rope grips your wrists. You pull against it. Not to test it, but to feel the pressure increase around the soles of your feet, and ankles, to which your wrists are bound. The bar, spreading you wide, flexes slightly as your roll your shoulders forward. This is the extent of your control. You make my rope bite harder.

My fingers have brought your skin alive. You’ve been bound like this, tied; helplessly forced into the most exposed and open of positions for a while. Your muscles are starting to nag you, though you're distracted by the lewd display you know you're compelled to put on, with your beautiful, curved arse, high in the air.

I can see your knickers becoming darker where the fabric is pulled taut.

How long has it been? 10 minutes? 20? 25? The goosebumps are becoming embarrassing. You can’t hide them. You can bury your flushed, blushing face into your bed; the erectile tissue causing your hairs to stand on end is quite independent of your will. Involuntary. Smooth skin becomes dimpled, each individual dimple, apparently, sensitive to the actual ridges of my fingerprints.


I’m suddenly aware that you’re there: waiting, and that my own, selfish, hypnotic enjoyment of your skin is not why we’re here.


You screw your face up. The pain of being forced; compelled to articulate your needs seems at once to be beyond what I’m about to inflict upon you. You push your face into the bed. I ignore you and go back to my lazy, endless caressing. You speak again. Clearer.

‘I need you…’

'No- I mean- I want you- I want you to...'

‘What?’ ‘You want me to… what?’

I continue. Matter-of-fact:

‘Use your words, or I won’t understand what you need. Explain it to me’.

The noise in your head increases.

You know there’s only a small hurdle to overcome, then you’ll be free of the cacophony, this uncoordinated, conductor-less orchestra roaring in your brain; but it feels insurmountable. The screaming inside you will subdue, as the metronome starts and the relentless, rhythmic beat begins. But you can’t actually bring yourself to ask me. I go back to caressing you.

‘I need you to spank me.’

Pulse: faster.

‘Good. How hard?’

‘As hard as you think I can…’

You tail off. I doubt you mean that. We’ll see.

‘OK. How many times?’

You stop. You don’t know. The sudden realisation that you’re going to get what you want from me, and soon, has tripped you up. Relief is close by.

‘How many times should I spank you? Once? Twice?’

‘No… More…’


You’re silent. Breathing: harder.

‘I tell you what. Why don’t we count together? That way we can keep track, and see where we get to. What do you think?’

More silence, but lip-bitten nodding this time. Eyes tight shut.

You test my ropes again. They tighten, strain and hold.

And I raise my hand high.
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