Dead Meat


That’s me, nilla, aka dead meat.

I’m laughing. I’m hysterical with laughter, actually. I may not be laughing later this evening when Master and I meet…I may not be able to type a word once His fingers clutch onto my arms and … no, I’m just not, not, NOT going to think about that.

Besides, I’m laughing too much to worry about that just now.

I think I mentioned in a post earlier this week, that Master was traveling all week. He is rarely gone for that long, and rarely without internet access, so we’ve been limited to texts, and two phone calls. One was Thursday night and we talked for almost an hour, which was a lovely treat. It was very late, but who cares, right? It was Master, and we connected.

I’ve come down from my high, at last. I feel my feet on the ground, and the bruises are healing. Thus far, no sub-drop, and maybe it won’t happen this time?

It was an intense session, to be sure. Sometimes it takes weeks to come down from it fully. Sometimes I don’t crash. I might whimper for a day, but not crash. And I hate anticipating it. It just seems to invite trouble, don’t you think?

And in some ways, it helps that my vanilla life has been crazy busy this week, keeping my mind occupied on mundane tasks.

And I got to spend the bulk of one day this week working on my novel, (novella?), 6 hours, and  6 chapters of editing. I wrote close to 10,000 words, to replace the 9,000 I had deleted a few weeks ago because I didn’t like it. So, a very productive day.

All these things helped me “down” to earth, but in a gradual way.

When Master sent me a text on Wednesday, I was a bit curious. I don’t have the exact wording, but it was something like “u r one dead slut.”

And I knew right away it had to do with a heart…but wasn’t quite sure how.

Wednesday night I headed out to do a few errands and was able to call Him between meetings. He talks to me about his trip, about where He is, about how His day was…

I love when He includes me in his life like this. Yet I suspected that part of this was build up to explaining the several texts on the theme of “nilla as dead meat”….and was I correctamundo!

Here’s a bit of “backstory” so you understand where His tale begins:  before we parted on Sunday, I fished a wee tiny little heart from my stash, and pressed it on his chest.

“So You have my love with you on your trek, Master,” I said as I kissed Him hard. He grumbled back “yeah, yeah, you and your fucking hearts“.  .  . but He left it on there.

And we both forgot about it.

Now, those little stickers stick tight. And they are tiny, less than a 1/4- inch wide. They have stayed on Him through showers, through workouts.  Apparently, this wee one was no exception.

He got to the hotel, and had a roommate, someone from his company who was also participating in the workshops. Seems that Wednesday morning, Master came out of the bathroom after his shower, towel wrapped around his hips (doesn’t that make my mouth water?!).

His roomie looks at him and says “Hey, what’s that on your chest? You got a tumor or something?”

*as an aside, as Master is telling me this, I’m driving through snow, and laughing so hard I’m crying*

Master looks down at his chest, says no, no…be right back, and heads back into the bathroom to pull off the offending heart…and about 6 chest hairs. Apparently as he rips the heart off, he yelps “Fucking heart!” coz when he comes out his roommate says, “Oh, you got grandkids?”

*okay, now I’m laughing hysterically….*

“No, no, I don’t have any grandkids, no.” He thinks (or so He tells me) “just one dead slut!”

And I am hysterical on the phone, tears are streaming down my face, and He is so dry and droll in the background, “sure, sure, laugh slut. Safe now, now that I’m 1,000 miles away. But wait. Just wait….”

Between this story, and Him calling my tits “bowling balls” since the bruises have gotten so dark…it is easy to see why sub-drop has not been an issue for me this week…

So even being “dead meat” has its benefits, right?