A View From The Back

A View From The Back

I adore a woman's shapely back. Aesthetically, a nice back is at least as artistic, and evocative, as shapely breasts. More on them later. Viewed from behind, a woman, naked to the waist, or better yet, with her dress unzipped and open to the buttocks, is an invitation to, what? A step on the way to complete nakedness, surely. From the front, a woman's real (or imagined) imperfections may detract, but from the back, most women are lovely. The naked back mirrors, promises, the naked torso. And a smooth back invites me to press against her, reach under her arms, weigh her breasts in my palms as I blow lightly over her ears, nibble the down at the nape of her neck.

Or, she is stripping for the whip. Does she tremble? Or is the singing whip's bite and sting the anticipated climax, the inevitable end, of her evening, after the ball? Ball gown to whipping post is a nice transition. Cinderella, after the dance, looks up bravely -- she should be brave, she will be brave -- before ber punishment by, who, the wicked stepsisters? No, better yet, the fairy coachman. It was the price he exacted, the promise she made.

She looks back at me fearfully, or knowingly, or uncertainly, but she is willing, willing to endure my will. To embrace it. I like her open, steady gaze that says, "I know you can and will break me, I want you to, but until that moment I belong to myself alone."