Sunday, April 22, 2012


By Lisabet Sarai


They meet, infrequently, to perform the ritual. She waits for him to arrive, heart slamming against her ribs, stomach twisted with nervousness. When he enters, they embrace, awkwardly. It has been so long. She attempts lightness, a joke, a jibe, pretending that she does not know why she is here. Then he gives the sign - a mere eyebrow, arched in a question - and her protective humor slips from her along with her clothing.

The ritual demands much of them, the steps choreographed, but always with room for improvisation. First he binds her, with rope, or silk, or leather, ceiling-hung with thighs spread, or splayed across the bed, or bent double over a hassock. Sometimes he will position her limbs and bind her to stillness with his command alone.

Then he teases her, dabbles his fingers in her wetness, lovingly mocks her sluttishness. She melts at his slightest touch, sinks liquid and helpless into the ritual spirit, moaning just as he intends. She could drown in his rich voice, nuanced and full of power. He pinches her nipples into aching peaks, captures them in clothespins, or cinches them with rubber bands. All the while he strokes her pussy, calls her his pet, muddles the pains and the pleasures beseiging her.

Next, he beats her. Here the ritual has many variants, but all with a single purpose: to invoke the purity of her surrender. She writhes under the lash, twists away from the hairbrush, whimpers as his bare palm reddens her buttocks. She does not wish to resist him; her only thought now is to please. But the pain is difficult to endure. Breathe, he says, soothing, encouraging, even as he scourges her. Open yourself. Yield yourself to me once again.

His voice is the key that unlocks her. Some barrier shatters and she floats free, each stroke of the whip an ecstatic kiss. His mind moves with hers now, sharing her agony and her joy. His breath comes in gasps like hers. His organ is granite. Now, come to me, my love, he whispers, entering her front or rear or spraying her marked thighs with his burning seed. She obeys, sliding into climax as he slides inside her, white hot fringed with red streaks of the pain.

Transcendence. Communion. Completion. They do not speak of it as they dress. There is no need for speech when the ritual is complete.

They meet infrequently. Sitting alone, on the plane or the bus taking her homeward, she savors the gaping, twitching sensations in her rear hole, the sharp echo of her stripes as she shifts in her seat, the slickness, still, in her sex. His voice echos in her mind.

Theirs is an old love. She thinks of him daily, imagines his life, her chest swollen with bittersweet aching. He thinks of her less frequently, but when he does, he gnashes his teeth, driven almost to madness because he cannot possess her. Then he recalls her sweet pliancy, her willing debasement, and his lips curve in a smile as he strums on his cock.

The ritual renews them. When she lies in a dentist's chair, or on the surgeon's table, when she wakes in fear in the night, she remembers him. Breathe. Open. Surrender. She relaxes into the fear, trusting as she trusts him.

She is sure that she will think of him, that way, when she surrenders herself into the arms of death. And then, perhaps, their meetings will be more frequent, and the ritual will be perfected.

(You must all get tired of this theme, over and over. But I can't help it... ~ Lisabet)


  1. On the contrary, I do not tire of it.

    This is magnificent.


  2. But it so fits the topic...

    One of my favorite D/s couples was not monogamous. However, they had a ritual like this for anytime after they had played with others. It was a 'cleansing through beating' that renewed their own connection and deepened it.

    It's fun to read the takes of others on such a step.

  3. This is certainly not boring Lisabet! It's HOT!

    I love the concept of a ritual. There is so much freedom and comfort in having a ritual, like an affirmation that all is right with the world.

    Thanks for posting it :-)


  4. Thank you, Craig,

    I wrote this long ago. But it hasn't become any less true.

  5. Hi, Ed,

    What a fascinating notion! Actually, I suspect that all couples - BDSM-oriented or not - develop shared rituals to deepen connections.

    Or else they don't remain couples for long.

  6. Thanks, Maggie,

    But you haven't been listening to me pour out my submissive soul here at the Grip for the last three years!

  7. Hi Lisabet!

    Aw cmon we never get tired of it, you know that. I'm not so sure that people don;t get tired of my own existential whining. We are what we are. Do you have dreams of him? I was dreaming last night of my days on the road, I have the same dreams very often. It represents something, some kind of image that stays in your as a soldier dreams of war, you dream of lost love. But was it love or something harder to define?

    I was thinking of you and your master this afternoon when I was snacking on a story by Anais Nin in "Delta of Venus". I'm always rediscovering her.


  8. Lisabet, this doesn't get old. And ironically, the relationships that don't involve living together (or never did) often seem the deepest -- at least when described the way you've done it.


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