Really, it’s the sound. Not the sight. Not the fear. Not even the exquisite sensation of endorphins coursing through my body. That is not, naturally, to say that the sights, the sensations are irrelevant. No. They all combine together to form a perfect encounter. But it’s the sound of my Love’s voice. The sweet whisper of his belt sliding from his trousers. The shushing noise of his knife stripping the bark from a switch. The click of the drawer closing and not knowing if his hand draws out a wooden paddle or a suede flogger.

Then, then it is swishing of cane as it cuts through the air or the splat of that beloved belt when it meets the soft flesh of my bottom. His quiet, yet stern voice giving direction, orders, or praise. My own voice, gasping, crying out his name, thanking him, begging for more.

The perfect slapping sound of his balls against my thighs, the sucking, slurping of my cunt drawing in his hard and throbbing cock. And finally, finally, the sound of his own panting breath as he takes his final pleasure, releasing himself inside of or on top of my flesh.