Stretched and bound, his palms open skyward, fingers curled, the tender insides of his wrists protected by thick restraints. The contrasts are so fucking beautiful–smooth white skin against rough black leather. The boy–warm and supple and willing. The restraints–cold and hard and unyielding.
I love watching him this way.
It takes a little while for him to relax. Blue veins pop on the insides of his forearms as he curls his hands into fists and then stretches his fingers wide… over and over and over. As he tenses, his rounding biceps make lovely hard angles that divide the contraction from the extension.
He focuses on breathing. Thin skin stretches tight over his stomach as his abdominal muscles tense and lock, allowing him only shallow breaths at the very top of his lungs, breaths that expand his chest in ragged, heaving movements.
As he struggles to calm down, his breathing finally slows and his hands rest open. His arms relax and his stomach softens. He breathes deeply now, and his chest expands in rhythm.
I stand stupidly at the side of the bed, watching him, my eyes darting here and there in a futile effort to see every part of him at once. I don’t want to miss any of him, any of this.
Part of me doesn’t want to move, doesn’t want to disturb his focus, doesn’t want to intervene on this beautiful process.
The other part of me wants to pounce and stun him, to make his breathing ragged once more, so that I can step away and watch him struggle to relax all over again.