Le Glace

French for “Ice”

August 16, 1788    
     
     
Mon Cher Donatien    
     
“Women fascinate me more than men,” you began. “Because their bodies are more sensitive, more sensual.” I heard the familiar clink in glass behind me. “They also have a much higher tolerance for pain.” The words hung in the air, daring me to challenge them. But I knew my place.    
     
The rope tie was exquisite, worth the time it took you to bind me in it. My wrists were encased with rope, several coils thick. The harsh rope was tied off over my shoulders, centering my arms in my back. All knots tight and out of reach. The frog tie trussed my legs so all I could do was sit splayed, giving you full access to all of me. You owned me… again.      
     
I held my gaze on the floor in front of me. Watching the candlelight sway across the cold stone floor. The room was cool and damp. This despite the Parisian summer on the other side of the windowless wall. My body reacted with pert nipples, and goosebumps on my skin.    
     
On went the blindfold, with no warning, no fanfare. Today’s lesson was not about that. I felt the hard tug as you triple tied it. The smell of its leather intoxicated. I breathed it in slowly through my nose. The smell of my desire and submission.    
     
I felt the warmth of your hand on my right shoulder, not a caress, but holding me in place. My body tensed. Then I felt the icy burn of the cube along my scapula. Tingles radiated throughout my body. I tried to stand up.    
     
“Reste la,” you whispered. Stay there, you said it with such force… it was not a request. I shivered as the cold trickle of water went down my back, over my curved cheeks, to other places. All of this added to my wetness. I was always subconscious of how I bedewed myself. How my glistening would give me away. You showed me how natural, how beautiful it was. That my body revealed itself in ways my words never could.    
     
After a pause, I felt you reach around me with both arms. Then the icy touch of ice on both breasts. I clenched my fists. Breathed in deep. While you slowly traced the cubes in tightening orbits around my pert nipples. The orbits became smaller in their inevitability. I loved the sense of relent that went through me. Before I would struggle, try to escape. Now I breathed in slowly, exhaled even slower.      
     
“Watch Mon Coeur,” you whispered in my ear. “You have a front row seat.” I tilted my head down. Widened my legs a little more. Watched the ice zero in on its target, the trickles of water painting my body with its clear sheen. Bit my trembling lip.  
   
My mind wandered off. This was seduction, this was foreplay. All of my other lovers focused on their needs. Climbed on top of me, jerked themselves off inside me. Then… rolled over to go to sleep. Leaving me tearful, lying the sticky aftermath of their sated lust.    
   
But not you. You made this all about me. Made me your damsel in distress. Tying me up masterfully. Then leaving me in my bondage, helpless, wanton. Before you did all that you desired. Only two syllables could undo your domination, “tulips.” My safe word, always there, always ready. But, to date, never needed. You pushed me to my limits. Right up the brink of too much. But no further.  
 
You left hand then began its descent. I thought we both knew where it was going. I widened my legs in anticipation. Let out a deep moan. The ice cube passed over my midriff, then the top of my fur. Cold trickles damped my hair, made their way to plump, swollen lips.  

It was then that you upended things. Shifting the wet cube around behind me. You pressed its coldness against my forbidden gate. Slowly coaxed me to open myself, to let it in, to let you in. I felt like a wanton Rive Gauche whore. Felt the ice pop inside.

“Tres Bien,” you said. With that, a taboo was added… to my lengthening list. Meanwhile the other ice cube began its journey…