Everyone has somewhere like it, right? Her fingers dug into the light grave on the disused flo
Everyone has somewhere like it, right? Her fingers dug into the light grave on the disused floor, damp seeping up through her toes like roots. It was earthy without being overrun, the kind of place that was in the process of losing the war with nature, but kept some semblance of humanity, if only in spite. The bar was her reason, but the whole place screamed out to the darker parts of her psyche. Dereliction as a destination. The perverse called to the perverse. She reached up and grabbed the half-rusted metal, brushed away the worst of it and got a grip. At first it was just a light pressure, just enough to make tiptoes not a chore, so that the arches of her feet got a break. It would build, certainly, but not for the moment. Now was mere assistance. A leg up against gravity. The light spilled in through the window, clumsily falling past the must crusting the window. It didn’t shaft, a light that had no proper lines, just a warm splodge of illumination that ran over the lower half of her, a little warmth for her trouble. She lifted herself a little more, until it was just toes that touched the ground. Her motivation wasn’t anything so crass and simple as exercise; it was a surrender that she was after. The release from whatever it was that kept her down, pulled her to the ground and made her feel however she felt when she wasn’t here, wasn’t lifted. A surrender to gravity. From gravity. Her body tuned to a singular purpose, each muscle stretched and tensed, each one protesting and pleading, just let up, just for a moment. But she didn’t, because she was as stubborn as they come. More importantly, because nothing felt quite this good. Just dangling. Suspended, held by a force above her, rather than cradled by something below. Both arms tight ropes of sinew, and she balanced on them with all the grace of a circus performer. Knees up now, pressed against her chest. She swung, ever so slightly, rocking on that grip. She dangled. Nothing more fancy or eloquent than that. She was just there, and she was dangling. Not a person. Just a thing attached by a few other things. A voluntary surrender of self, if only for a little while. If only for a little while, she could avoid thought. Everyone has somewhere like that, right? -- source link
#dangling#sounds good#dominance#submission#fetish#erotica#erotic fiction#fiction