I think of D/s flirting sometimes like throwing spiderweb silk in his direction, and these delicate filaments stick to him, sometimes inadvertently, perhaps he doesn’t even realise that this light gossamer thread has even landed on him, much less that it has attached itself. But sometimes, he sees it clearly, will catch it, examine it, tiny and harmless, then look me directly in the eye and deliberately stick it to himself (see, that image there is incredibly hot to me… *swoon*).
And then he flings one back at me, this light and whisper-thin silk, and I may play with it a little, then attach it firmly to my bare skin, perhaps there, just above my breast, or in that spot where a chaste kiss might land on my cheek, or there, where my hip bone juts. The ones that land on my lips will come later.
Over time, we build up this network of threads, one by one building a web, it is almost insidious, unseen, each piece of delicate silk delivered quietly and landing softly, a conduit that gets stronger and stronger. Along these paths, we can send heavier and heavier things as it builds up strength, becomes something complex, binding, the sum of it incredible.
When we get to the point where the silk is wending its supple way inside, breathed in through the nose, silently slipping in through pores to find heart, lungs, mind, that’s the moment that we realise that we have created something almost unexpected, that this touch that we thought was feather-light was really steel-strong: sticky, and inescapable.