He turns his back to me, a smooth lake of milk, quivering in the moon light. The curtains move in the warm breeze and cast shadows across him, inky blue and fleeting. In my hand I hold an instrument of torture and I mean to hurt him, I do, as he’s begged me to, this man whom I love. I mean to make him break and buckle for me. The first lash comes quick and hot, I’m itching to see him recoil, hear him suck air through his teeth. He won’t cry out, not yet, not before he’s a galaxy of tiny red stars from shoulders to thighs. The leather strands are sharp tonight, cutting the silence of the room and his hips press harder into the bed as he resists. Again, a third, the quick whizz-smack and I can see the shadow of blood beneath the surface of his skin, a rising tide pulled by the crescent moon carved in my palm.
We are on a cosmic flight, together a clattering symphony of breath, unheard in the silence of space. The monochrome of the dark bedroom blooms lively and psychedelic, every fall of the whip sends a light show of comets skipping across him and he begins to bleat a staccato signal of pain and pleasure, my cue to continue. We thrust and parry, dancing in the dark, an eternal call and answer. Swirling and spiralling through dreamscapes of pleasure I finally fall to his side, fingers and lips soothing the blooming nebulous bruises across his strong, lithe body. He tastes of minerals, sweat and blood and stardust. He blinks at me, my beloved cosmonaut, and smiles, for he is still in orbit and I am his sun.