Submitting to Irene

A force of nature.
She was a force of nature.
Both in fact and in metaphor.

She fascinated me, like some mythological beast who won't let you look away, even as she draws nearer and nearer and prepares to devour you.

She swallowed me up.
I could not look away.

The storm wasn't even all that bad here. We were hit with nothing more than the fringes of her skirt and cloak as she twirled up the coast, enough to take down some trees but not enough to stop the city cold. I lost power for perhaps half a minute and no more, though others were not that lucky. We didn't even get a lot of rain.

But I couldn't look away.
I couldn't go to sleep.

Obsessively, I followed her path, swapping preparations, plans, and predictions with friends up and down the East Coast. We'd been talking all week anyway, not wanting to let go of the intimacy of our days at "Band Camp" and the surprise earthquake that came so soon after. I fed off Facebook and group e-mails, while Irene sank her teeth into my pale, bare neck and fed off me.

By the afternoon, I was insanely aroused, and not just from working on the first half of my latest sex toy review. It was Irene. She was tangled in my rowdy curls, winding her scarf around my neck, and blowing into my panting pussy. My Master was right to see that I was too sensitive not to respond to her.

I wanted to lay myself naked at her feet and feel her lash.

When she finally arrived at our latitude, she kept her distance. Like many people this time of year, she haunted the shore and merely breezed by the halls of power, monuments of stone already shaken by the rumblings of midweek. She treated us gently and I was disappointed.

I wanted more.

I needed more.

I wanted to walk out into the storm and give myself to her,
naked and unprotected.
I needed to offer myself.
I needed to submit.
I needed her to slap my face with gusts of wind,
to flog my breasts with sprays of stinging rain,
to cane my belly and buttocks
with switches of fallen branches.

I wanted her power.
I needed her fury.

But all she gave me was a hint.
A taste.
And roaring echoes of her passion.

It was my Master who gave me relief.
My Master who opened the locks.
My Master who said I could touch and could cum
and licked up the words that flowed with my passion.

He knew I couldn't help being drawn to Irene.

But he knows that I'm nobody's slave but his own.