SM: The Erotic Game


SM is watching the neighborhood kids play cops and robbers, and the look on the
face of the one that has maneuvered herself into being the victim - all tied up
and the center of attention.

SM is when the belt hits, first it stings like hell, then it's warm.

SM is two guys on a Harley, the front one raunchy and hairy and wearing full
leathers, and his passenger in neat Levis, polo shirt, and tennis shoes.

SM is the lady doctor from out of state that you keep tied up in a cage all
weekend, and you invite your friends.

SM is trying to piss while your mistress holds your cock and makes comments.

SM is your slave holding her hair out of the way without being told, as you put
on her collar.

SM is the quiet typist by day who turns into a whip-wielding mistress by the
night in a professional house of dominance.

SM is the sweat, and wondering if you're going to pass out, and finally letting
go.

SM is a pair of tiny gold handcuffs on an expensive dress at the symphony.

SM is Sunday brunch at an SM bar: and even though you're a straight couple, the
leathermen know that you're into it too.

SM is the Story of 0, when you've been there, too.

SM is putting in an ad, and you get 55 responses the first week.

SM is making your boyfriend wear a French maid outfit, and serve lunch to you
and your two best girlfriends, who are into women's lib.

SM is screaming "THAT'S ONE SIR! THANK YOU SIR!" at the top of your lungs.

SM is the gratitude, all your life, to the person who brought you out.

SM is trying to explain the massive frame and eyebolts to your landlady.

SM is finding the perfect pair of boots.

SM is your new slave, blindfolded, masturbating, and telling his secret
fantasies, while you watch and listen to every marvelous detail.

SM is falling asleep with your hands and feet bound - and the dreams.

SM is the guy at the party who asks if he can try on your handcuffs.

SM is the proud African youth in National Geographics, with a skewer through
his cheeks, and knowing that you both know what you know.

SM is forgetting to take off your steel cockring, and it sets off the alarm at
the airport.

SM is how hot her ass feels when you caress the welts.

SM is putting up with a picky uncertain submissive, novice-new, who does't know
how to say what he wants to say; but finally he gets down to it, and takes your
breath away with the magnificent totality of his submission.

SM is all the people explaining why SM is so bad, knowing nothing about it, and
you want to giggle, because they're so serious.

SM is the perfume of sweaty leather.

SM is your fifth anniversary, and all your friends hold and cuddle you while
your lover has a professional piercer put a gold ring through your labia.
Afterwards she holds and kisses you, and you'd do anything for her.

SM is Errol Flynn chained by pirates.

SM is the uniform in your closet, waiting for Saturday night.

SM is being absentminded at work on Monday.

SM is being taken downstairs blindfolded and handcuffed. After you're stripped
and tied up, the blindfold comes off, and you see it's soundproof.

SM is hurting the one you love, just exactly right.

SM is wondering what your co-executives would say if they knew about the welts
and the sticky panties underneath your conservative suit.

SM is wishing you could afford one of everything at the SM shop.

SM is seeing a branding, done right, and marveling "how easy!"

SM is how good your nipples feel when the clamps are perfect; and then the
little bite more, and how your nipples adjust to accept that, too.

SM is the humiliation of discovering that your new slave is far more
experienced than you are.

SM is spotting an ancient gay masochist on the bus: shaved head, faded jacket,
heavy chain and padlock around his neck, very clean, tattoos coming out of his
collar and cuffs-quiet, upright, proud, centered, and content.

SM is shaking talcum power into your rubber suit.