#i take off my belt

He took his time. He had as much of it as he needed. The buckle, off in one smooth motion, a single, solitary ‘click’ as the catch clacked against the frame. Then it was all swishes, slipping past each loop with the intimacy of a whisper against her ear. Only she was on the other side of the room, and she was chewing on her lip.

He was faced with a decision, then, as he folded the belt in half over his hand. The decision was concerning which end of the belt to use on her. The loop was attractive, if only for its neatness, although it would leave a single, livid mark. He liked to be able to tell exactly where each stroke had been, trace it with his finger.

Or he could use the other end, where the two ends hung loose, where they would hit her in sequence, one after the other, in a fraction of a second. But she would feel that one two, feel how they offered an individual sting, each their own. It would create a more even spread of colour, even if he lost something in the power department. 

And he took his time deciding. He had time to take. She, on the other hand, was treating each second with a mix of trepidation and gratitude, hoping each would somehow suspend, draw itself out longer than it had any right to be. 

She also hoped that they would not.