A Memory

Hugging Kaye last night, I was suspended in the golden haze of memory:

They are straddling the spanking bench, their wrists tied to the spreader bar above their heads. 

Beautiful, stretched high and tight and thin, all trembling muscles and golden skin. 

It's been half a year and still I can see the moment when Kaye relaxes into Lucivar's shoulder, neck corded with tension and the pain Terry and I are inflicting on both of them. 

Terry's toybag is spread open on the bench nearby, my own (much smaller!) bag lies beside it, and we circle our boys, randomly choosing objects to hurt them with.

I've become partial to the little cane and Lucivar's bare, vulnerable feet.

Terry is wielding a heavy, painful flogger on Kaye's back. 

We switch boys, switch implements, exchange smiles, evil comments. 

The boys groan and whimper, yelp and scream. 

Golden skin shining with sweat, nearly matching sandy brown hair and lovely, muscled bodies pressed together.

Lucivar stroking Kaye's hair, comforting, even as his teeth grit at each new blow. 

Kaye's bound hands stroking Lucivar's neck, a brotherhood, a bonding in their suffering. 

They are both so beautiful, so delicious in their agony. 

It has been six months since the night we tied them together and made them whimper for us. 

It could have been yesterday for the power that memory holds to make me wet.