Belt Up

When I came home last night I sat down on the lounge to gather my senses before I made a cup of tea and went to bed. My favourite quilt, a threadbare and tattered patchwork some unknown hand stitched more than a century ago and passed to me by a dear friend who has moved away, was still folded up on the armrest. Someone had casually placed a worn leather belt across it, and seeing this I almost pissed my knickers. Belt. Gasp. Belt. Swoon. Belt.

Belt?

Belt sent me totally into subspace, a place I don't often visit (especially on my own). Suddenly Daddy was at the door after a long day at work, in suit and tie, smelling like scotch and aftershave. Me forced to my knees, bruising as I hit the cold floorboards of the hallway. Gagging, led by throat and dragged along by hair, and then... Belt. Slowly, hearing buckle undone above my head and leather sliding through fabric loops, we all know what happens next... belt keeping hands behind back, belt around throat, belt leaving welts across my thighs and cutting across that sweet spot, belt as make-do gag, belt trussing ankles... But somehow the thrill wasn't in what happened next anyway, the sting was in that moment, the less than a minute of mouth pressed up against zipper and breathing wool and sweat and rough hands surely managing metal and flesh. Belt?

Now, where the hell did THAT come from then? Some not-too-distant memory of a dancefloor belting by a uniformed butch as her ultrafemme girlfriend held me down, a very-distant memory of the only belting my father ever gave me (when I was about 2 years old and I wouldn't stop screaming because my Mam had gone to church)? Its not so much the object as the reaction that's got me curious, plenty of things make me swoon moistly (needles, blood, latex gloves, amyl, boots, binders, rope, breath controletc etc) but the sight of this belt on my bedlinen made me want to learn my place, and for that place to be sleeping on the floor. In a puddle.