by Mel Combs
(7/20/05)
"Demolish me with that whip. Demolish my breasts, my cunt. Demolish me," Amber begged him.
As she implored him, he didn't look into her brown eyes or notice her freckles or curls; instead, he saw the toes, the plump toes, painted in pale pink polish. He laughed silently to himself.
Amber again begged, "Demolish me with that whip. I want that whip all over my body. Please." Her words ached, but he didn't care about her words, he only thought about how he would feel when he heard the snap of leather and the thrash of the whip onto her skin.
They had been meeting for two months in a Manhattan cave, and she wanted to take the relationship out of the cave and into her world, a world of corporate meetings, cubicles, and 401(k)s, a world of frozen yogurt, fluffy pillows, and Cuisinarts. But she wasn't ready to ask him for so much yet, so she begged for the whip.
He obliged.
The whip greeted her flesh with a sizzle, and instead of shuddering from the pain, she giggled like a child swimming in a pool with an inflatable, polka-dotted giraffe. And as she giggled, her world sank, while she rose to the surface, bubbling and breathing. Over and over again.
