Good Vibrations Magazine

Every morning when I go for my run, I imagine it’s you making me do it. You are my vicious, cruel, and merciless top, and you love making me hurt, making me exert myself. I slide nude out of the bed where you’re still sleeping comfortably. I put my long hair in a ponytail and step into my skintight black bicycling shorts and pull on my white sports bra, inhaling stale sweat, knowing that sweat is the evidence of my devotion to you. I pull a tight spandex jersey over my head, knowing it will be cold out there until I work up my own heat. The faint sound of your breathing from the bed is a whispered order from your throne. I take out my yellow tape player and put in a tape, the same rhythmic industrial band we play when we’re making love. I fix the Velcro strap around my hand, put the earphones in my ears. I close the door behind me, start the tape, and run.

The morning air is sharp with cold. I shiver as I think of you watching me.

The first mile is always the hardest. As the beat pounds through me, the dull thud of my feet matching it perfectly, I can feel your lashes on my back, forcing me to run, never letting me slow down. The pain builds as I feel the sweat break out on my face and body. Sweat dribbles down into the small of my back, soaks the sports bra and jersey till they wick it away and my scent releases on the breeze. I feel my heat building further, to the point where I’m uncomfortable. Every ounce of pain is like a torture you’ve devised for me. I pass men and women on the sidewalks, and West Hollywood queens driving their VWs and Audis to work. My public suffering is a specific torment you’ve designed for me: Everyone can see my submission to you. Everyone in the world knows I belong to you.

I’m starting to overheat when you mercifully force me to strip. Feeling unseen eyes on me, I pull the zippered spandex jersey over my head and tie it around my waist. The morning cold hits me hard, and I feel my nipples stiffening in the white sports bra, evident to anyone who cares to look, for you’ve decreed that I’ll have no privacy, that my naked body is to be enjoyed by all. This only makes my nipples harder, harder than the cold could ever make them, and as they grow more erect I feel more and more exposed. I can sense my pussy throbbing, its staccato rhythm much quicker than the pulse of the industrial music filling my ears, much harder than the drum-machine explosions. I know from experience that my spandex shorts, hugging the lips of my bare pussy, are growing wet with much more than sweat, as the scent of my desire for you soaks the material. Wicked away on the wind, the scent travels to anyone on the street who cares to draw a breath, and at your decree I am further exposed to them — now they know just how wet I am, just how much it turns me on to suffer for my mistress. My face is flushed with more than physical exertion, and the tops of my breasts feel hot despite the morning chill.

I am in agony. Every step is a torture you’ve devised to abase me — to show me that the pains of my body are for your satisfaction alone, and that you take great pleasure in bringing me pain as easily as you bring me pleasure with your mouth and your hands and your strap-on. I imagine you driving alongside me in the car, cracking your bullwhip on my exposed flesh every time I slow, every time I contemplate stopping. I desperately wish I could let go of this torture and sit down at a bus stop to rest. But you won’t let me; your bullwhip strikes its mark each time, tearing gouges into my back and ripping the sports bra into tatters. Perhaps it falls off, and I run bare-breasted through the streets as I hear the gunshot cracks of your whip, as I feel the leather tip opening up my flesh so blood mixes with the sweat running down my back and the salt of my perspiration seeps into the wounds you make on me. The sting makes me cry out in agony as I push myself to run faster, as I force myself to stop wishing I could rest, as I savor the agony and pick up speed.

As I reach deep down inside myself to find the stamina that will please you, you order me to stop; your next order, given in an instant as you watch, is to remove my spandex shorts. Obeying reluctantly, I leave them and let the shorts and my spandex jersey join the tatters of my sports bra in the clean West Hollywood gutter. At your command, I resume my run, traveling sweat-slick, flushed and naked through the streets — naked except for my tape player, which pulses with the rhythm of you fucking me. The agony screams through my thighs and calves, through my burning lungs; the pain is too much to bear, as is the humiliation you force on me as men and women look over my sweaty, naked body, see me flushed with exertion, chuckle at how cruel my mistress must be and how recalcitrant I am to warrant such an extreme humiliation. I feel my pussy throbbing harder, wetter as my juices run down my thighs, as sweat dribbles between my cheeks and stings me. I feel the rush of pain and surrender — and then I’m through the pain, the suffering over, the pleasure just beginning. You drive alongside me as I head back to our house.

I let myself back in the silent cottage, smelling the flowery musk of your sleeping body. I can never wait. I always strip off my damp sports bra in the living room, kick off my shoes and socks in the kitchen as I get a glass of water, peel off my soaked shorts in the hall as I head toward the bedroom. I always smell them before dropping them on the floor, and I am never disappointed.

You’ve sprawled across the bed to take over my side as well as your own. You’re naked under the sheet, the damp white material clinging to the curves of your body. Naked now myself, as naked as I was when I ran through the streets for your pleasure, I slip under the sheet, feeling the heat engulf me, and I start kissing your neck. You awaken after the first few kisses, and for an instant I think you’re going to stop me. But you don’t. I lick my way down to your small breasts and take your nipple into my mouth, suckling until you gasp and moan slightly. I caress one breast gently with my hand and continue licking the other until I can wait no longer and I simply have to have you. I lick my way down your belly, tasting the salt of your sweaty sleep, so different than the sweat of my exertion at your cruel order. I tease my tongue into your belly button, gently ease your legs apart, and slide down to the end of the futon until my waist is bent, my knees just reaching the floor so I can kneel as I service my mistress. My tongue finds your cleft and you gasp, arch your back, moaning and writhing as you clutch at the bed, the contour sheet coming undone in your hand as you pull at it. I taste your pussy, so sharp after eight hours of rapturous, sexy sleep. My tongue-tip traces a path around it, and then I move up to your clit. My hands find their way under your ass and squeeze firmly as I work your clitoris, knowing that this sexual service I offer you — no, this service you take from me — is but my smallest repayment for your love and dominance. I let my finger travel slowly around the curve of your ass until it rests in your crack. My other hand finds its way inside you, using two fingers as you uncontrollably throw pillows across the room, your head thrashing violently back and forth. And then you come, screaming, always so much louder than you intend, always loud enough to hurt your throat, wake the neighbors, embarrass you after the fact. But knowing that doesn’t stop me, nor would you want it to, as I ride you with my mouth, ride your bucking and pumping hips as you come — 10 seconds, 15, 20, more.

When finally your hips sink back down to the bed, I hold still, knowing you’re too sensitive and if I licked you now you’d do more than just scream. I kiss the curly V of your pubic hair, reach up and grasp your hand. “Good morning,” I say.

Do you wonder why it is that I suddenly began making love to you every morning, waking you up with a tongue so eager even a mistress couldn’t control it? If you ever do wonder, out loud, I imagine I might tell you the wonderful things you do to me, the exquisite exposure, the succulent degradation you force me to suffer every morning as I run nude through the streets for your pleasure. I might tell you how you force me to push through the pain, compel me to offer my body for this ritual. I might tell you how every time you look at my body with those sultry violet eyes of yours, your dominance over me is renewed. I might tell you what a vicious, bitchy top you are to torture me like this every morning before a civilized girl would even let her slave get out of bed.

I might tell you about my cruel top with your face and your name and your body; then again, perhaps I’ll keep her to myself, because you don’t seem to mind the end result — and despite the myriad and lovely possibilities of predawn submission, a civilized girl would never get out of bed at that hour. But is any of this really civilized?