What to write about when I have no idea what to write about?
I’m coming down a bit from my UBER-high after a delightfully sadistic time with Master.
And following hot on the heels of free time with Master is the vanilla “payback” week, when I tend to get overburdened with chores, and work etc etc etc. That’s life, but it has left me little time for more creative endeavors, like writing porn.
What free time I had on Tuesday was spent reading OPB’s since I’m so behind on that. So if I’ve not commented on YOUR blog, don’t think I’ve not dashed in, read a bit, and dashed off…just haven’t had time to say hey in most cases…but by the end of this week I should hopefully be caught up.
And I want to burble on and on and on about Master, but every time I start to?
I go off in my head again.
Seriously, it’s like a disease.
(please don’t tell me there’s a cure…don’t want it!)
His hands…gods, His hands. Strong, capable, domineering, bossy. He throws me around like a rag doll. And this time I did fight a few things, flinching and trying to break away. The arm torture was terrible. Gods. He pinched over the old bruises and it hurt like hellfire.
He even bit my belly.
It hurt so fucking much. And I loved it. Yes, I have teeth marks on my belly. I rub them through my clothing when I get stressed and…aaahhh…i remember being handcuffed and thrown on the bed, and bitten and pinched and tickled until I about pissed myself.
He played with me for a long, long time before He decided to allow me an Orgasm. And then He backed off 4 or 5 times just as I was getting to the edge.
This Man takes Orgasm control seriously. Right to the brink…and wham.
And then He touches me. And smiles that smile at me. He knows how much He is tormenting me. And when I finally explode, everything is drenched.
There is laughter, and tears. He holds me, and He hits. The controlled power is incredible. I can see, sometimes, that He is holding back. I feel how much it hurts, and know that He is guiding me down a path. It is pain, delivered in controlled doses.
And I won’t show you all the bruises. There are many many many. I do bruise wicked easily, just bumping into the edge of a table can give me a bruise as large as my palm…so imagine a well-wielded cane? (You can go to nilla pix to see one such image, taken about 20 minutes after the first caning.) Caning, plus FSCT, plus several other things…? My tits are battered.
And I’m okay with it.
So much better than okay with it. I am high as a fucking kite about it. This was our most intense, most physical session in our years together. It was rough, and tender, brutal and sweet…each negative juxtaposed by a positive that kept us both “lit”…
When it was time to go, and we clean up, pack up, redress into vanilla skins…we tease, and kiss, He pinches or swats…try to lure each other into one more …just one more flop on the bed…but we’re both under a time crunch, and there is no other recourse.
Parting is so hard.
And when I am home in my bed, alone, I float in my head, my body throbbing. Sore from fucking, sore from His hands, and my heart heavy being apart from Him. I sleep deeply, and wake with His scent still upon me.
I wear His marks on my body as badges of love, of committment, of submission.
And to remind me, that despite all the challenges that wait for me in the days until we are together again, He is still the boss of me…He’s large and in charge.
So as I buzz around my day-to-day, I remember the sting of His hands, and the feeling of being His toy. It keeps me in my place, keeps my world ordered, makes me miss Him fiercely, and love Him deeply.
It’s really a good thing, dontcha think?