15 minutes

I want to make a BDSM booty call tonight.  I want to be taken, to be fucked, to be beaten and hurt and twisted into whatever fuckery he wants and then to fall into blissful, post-beaten/post sex sleep with chains clinking between my legs, with the shackles tight on my wrists and throat, with his hands on my throat and skin, possessing me, owning me.
It’s not going to happen, of course.  We have all these rules; I am  here, he is there; this is my “real life,” that is fantasy and fun.  But FUCK.
Booty call.  Why can’t I have that?  Beat me.  Please?
Here is what would happen, based on a single line in an email:  “And if you need a quick beating I imagine I can do quite bit of damage in 15 minutes if I have to.”
I knock, he opens the door.  I enter and lean in to kiss him hello.  He grabs a handful of my hair, holds me just far enough away to look me in the eyes.  That’s it, that moment, that’s all the hesitation I get, before he drags me into his front room.
He pushes me down onto the couch and kicks my legs apart (I am startled, unprepared, protecting myself). His hand comes down, hard, in a slap across the back of my head.  “Be still.” I cower against the sofa.  He shoves my head down and grabs rope.  It’s going to be quick, but he likes the sight and feel of rope, and he lashes it around my wrists, not caring about my whimpers.  And then, because he only has 15 minutes, he starts in.  Slapping my ass and thighs, grabbing the crop he has left handily on the table behind him, slashing at thighs and calves and ass.  I can’t fully imagine what he uses because I am not a Top, all I know is the feeling of surrender, of giving in, as he hits me, as he hurts me, as the blows rain down.
But of course there is more than that, isn’t there?  You want to be submissive, you want to give in, but it hurts like fuck, doesn’t it, and you’re scared, scared of what you’ve called out in him, of what you’ve unleashed, scared of what he is while he is slashing at you, hurting you.  Scared of that look in his face, of that pleasure that he feels in hurting you.  So you yelp and twist away from him and the pain, you cry out and deny that this is what you want, what you’ve been asking for (please, please hurt me, please take me places I am afraid to go on my own, please make me feel, make me real.)  The ropes? They are nothing now to the quick biting anger of his blows, nothing to the fear and pain he is visiting on you, that you have asked for, that you want and need and crave.
And then, though these 15 minutes have seemed an eternity, it is over as quickly as it has begun, and he is releasing you, allowing you to stand again, to be “you” again, this you that you do not know and do not want to know.  You want to be her, that one on her knees in front of the couch, that one with no other self than what he gives you.
You get up, you straighten your skirt, you brush a hand through your hair, and you go.