Romilly MacAran is kicks and swings and naughty things
The windows and the cabin door are open. The night air breathes its coolness, accompanied by the chorus of nightsound. The sturdy, steadfast song of cicadas scritches like a washboard in a jugband, below the punctuate cries of indigenous life. He is seated in a straight-back chair at the wooden table, wearing nothing but jewelry, Her lightning bolt, Her lock, Her collar. She has covered his eyes with a navy bandana, a makeshift blindfold. The absence of sight heightens his other senses. His nerves awaken at the rough brush of rope against his arms, Her warm breath at his back, her natural scent, as She secures his wrists behind the chair, winding the rope in consecutive loops before tucking it through. She twists the coils and the rope tightens against his wristbones. She pulls the ends. Snug. Without speaking, She moves to the left of the chair. The scrape, pop, and flare close to his ear startles him at first, the sulfur burn in his nostrils bringing recognition. A match strike, then flame.
She lights the candle, blows out the match, and begins to sing softly and slowly near his left ear, almost a whisper: “Happy Birthday to you … Happy Birthday to you … Happy Birthday, My servant … Happy Birthday to you.” She strokes his hair and warns, “Make a wish … but don’t blow.”
“Yes, Mistress.” He has so many wishes, but the first, the most important, has already been granted. He is here, in this place, with the One with whom, to whom, he belongs. He wants very much to tell her so, but dares not disturb the silence, the surrounding song of the prairie. Besides, She has not bidden his words, nor granted permission to speak freely. And he knows she knows. He lets the blessed silence guide him.
She admires the dancing flame in contrast with the dark walls, gathering dusk. Her senses are heightened too. She loves this time of day, this place, the cool and the heat, Her servant. She lifts the tin plate from the table, lets the warmth kiss Her lips, the fire dance in Her eyes, until she is one with the eternal flame. She lifts the square cake to his face, lets the small fire dance dangerously close to the tip of his nose, threaten his moustache, lets the aroma of dark chocolate and cinnamon tease his nostrils. She touches the thick square to his lips, the candle still burning.
He senses a dark, delicious warmth, then a more intense heat, a vague danger. “Open,” she commands. “Bite it, servant.” The gentle authority takes his heart by surprise, as it has every time she has summoned it, but this time her nearness intensifies the power of her tone. He bites carefully. His teeth sink into the dense substance and his mouth is filled with a rich sweetness with darkness at its edge. He chews, presses the chocolate to the roof of his mouth, and the faint heat of chile hangs on the back of his tongue.
“you like that, servant?”“Mmm, yes, Mistress,” he purrs.
She smiles, and tips the candle, letting liquid fire prick his belly, his thigh. One drop of wax lands on his PA, on the hasp of Her lock, sealing it, like his fate is sealed in this moment.
Once again, she touches the confection to his mouth. He opens now instinctively, needing more, bites down, closer now to the candle. The chocolate coats his teeth, he chews, presses, lets the concert of flavors hang on his tongue. Then he feels her closer, the scent of her desire mingled with the cinnamon. Her lips brush his cheek, his lips, press harder. Her teeth grasp his lower lip, pull back, then again the tiny splash of wax, this time on his chest, groin, cock, then more, the fire near his face, nearer his mouth, the sweetness, danger, the risk and the reward.
