It is no ardent caress he desires. He does not long for love (for he knows he is unworthy of it) but aches for release. Release from the shackles of thought and memory, from the prison his own mind has created. How ironic that he can find his escape only in chains. Only in the searing sting of the cane across his backside. Only in the dull ache between his shoulder blades as his arms are forced up and back until he thinks that the bones might pop from their sockets at any moment. Only in the scratching and poking and slicing of those long, sharp talons along his cheek and his throat, down his back and around his cock.
One single, ill-timed movement, he knows, could easily carry him past the threshold of masochistic pleasure and into a realm of true, agonizing torture. But that knowledge only serves to arouse him further, eliciting a quiet moan as his Master squeezes. For one so restrained, it may as well be a scream. He feels his cheeks flush, and the low, mocking chuckle he hears tells him that his Master has noticed and takes pleasure in his embarrassment.
Not for the first time, she considered the concept of worship. What did devotion and trust really mean? For most, perhaps the answer would come from a dictionary, some pat little summary with no real heart in it. She had never been one to accept the easy, simple answer.