I could just jump right in here and say “my best part is…..”
But you know I won’t. *laughs*
Well, hell, I *know* I’m easy…but we don’t want it to end *that* fast, now do we? Right. See? I know YOU, too. 🙂
It’s Thursday as I sit and reminisce. And I will tell you that things are still floating in and out of my head, a plethora of images..His eyes, the …concentrating, I guess…way that He dug into that damned black bag as I lay on the bed watching Him. He’d pull something out, lay it on the bed. Repeat. Occasionally He’d pull out something and say “Oh! I’d forgotten all about that!” and then He’d look up at me, wiggle the toy at me, and smile.
Threat, promise, glee.
Though that was a very amusing part (and a bit titillating)…it still isn’t my favorite.
Then there was the Wall session. He was gentle, guiding me carefully (blindfolded) around the bed. And He was rough, pushing me hard against the wall. (Hard enough to leave a small bruise on my forehead. When I texted Him the next morning saying so, His response? “Then don’t move your pretty fucking head.”
Still, not my favorite moment (though I admit it is in the Top 5).
Well…it’s been a week since I started writing this, and I’ll let you in on a little secret. Those first 200 words took me more than an hour to write! I usually write about 1200+ words in an hour, for comparison. I was very obviously still in the slut-zone. The good thing is that I don’t seem to fall and crash and burn as I come down to “normal” anymore. No subspace one minute, and then BOOM-subdrop, tears, and whimpering depression. That seems to have moderated as we moved into our 2nd year together, and these days, working on year 4? I can’t remember a time when I fell into a gloom after playtime. Pissed off a time or two, oh yes. 🙂 But subdrop? Not so much.
I remember, last week, that I’d write a phrase or a sentence and would gaze off into nothing, remembering. Lost in the memories of his body hot on mine, the intensity of his teeth biting my nipple, my shoulder, even my ass where He’d hit me, bruised me. The scent of him, the weight of him, the strength of Him…he is so *fucking* strong.
But now a full week plus has passed, and of the bits I am still remembering (yes, it sometimes takes 2 weeks to remember all of the day…i think the blindfold plays a role in my lack of clarity in remembering) some of the things He did…we did.
We’re pretty fucking naughty. 🙂
But what one part of our 8 hours together was the best part? That’s harder to pin down than you might think. I love spending time with Him in vanilla settings. Having tea and bagel time before we head to the hotel, talking about vanilla things, when He will drop in some naughty D/s thing. Or tug my hair and hold me in place by it, right there in the restaurant as I get up from the table and slip over to his side to kiss his bearded face. Mmmm, public submission turns me on.
But there’s this moment.
Our playtime is almost over. I’m already hurty-achey…in part from the beatings, and in part from being used. My girly bits are swollen, throbbing, raw feeling. (gawd…just writing this turns me on)
By now the blindfold is gone, and He’s laying over me. We’re both pretty spent. I don’t think I have a single O left in my body, but his fingers, those naughty, strong digits, are still busy over my body, pulling my nipples, pinching me, tickling me. I’m pinned, unable to summon the strength to even attempt to push him off of me, just glazed and looking up at Him.
There is not a better word to describe it. Drained, thudding in my entire body with every heartbeat. Full and empty at the same time. I think I’ve touched the divine, been touched by something deeper than sex and lust and pain. Transformed. Healed. Happy.
And then those naughty fingers slide low. They tease their way down my belly and I know.
“ooooohhh” I moan.
“Shhhhhhhh” He whispers, his mouth hovering just over mine.
“I-i c-can’t…oh Masterrr…”
“Shhhhhhh” he will say, then take my mouth in the tenderest of kisses, as his fingers begin to assault my pussy. He might pinch and prod and pull, or just nudge my swollen lower lips apart and press inside. Sometimes he’ll start slow and gentle…and other times it is nothing short of an onslaught, the Warrior taking the conquered. His strong fingers begin fucking into my painfully sore pussy, fucking hard, rough violent, while I whimper and moan into his mouth, as His lips continue the gentle assault on mine.
And then my body is gone and I’m flying, cumming, cumming so hard I fear that my molecules will lose their grip and i’ll explode into oblivion. I squirt at these times, my pussy convulsed in intense paroxysms of pleasure. And pain. The two so intertwined I have no idea which is which.
And fade to black.
When I rouse, He is there, laughing against my mouth.
“You slut, you’ve ruined another coverlet.”
Yeah. That is a pretty favorite part, too.
(gee isn’t there an infomercial that goes like that?)
But I still haven’t told you my very, very best, favorite part…and I’m guessing that you really want to know what on earth it could possibly be?
You might be surprised. Maybe. It’s not the beating. The fucking. The dressing up, the shoes, the slutty makeup, the Wall, the toys, the tying up. It’s not the crop, the paddle, the fucking silver cake thingy, and certainly not the fucking pink hairbrush!
It’s something unexpected in a D/s relationship.
Something that doesn’t come into the room via his black bag.
I know. It’s unexpected. Tears? Tears you’d expect there to be. All that beating. All the bruises. All the pain. Yup, there are tears, and I treasure ’em…but at the point where negativity breaks away, when I am still very much in the grip of the Sadist…something inside of me goes *pop*. (no, not that. Well, okay, yeah that. But that’s before. And after.) (laughs)
This “pop” is in my head, my attitude. Suddenly all that has been before fades, and all that lies ahead is too far away to worry about. There is only the *right- fucking- now* where I have nothing to do or be or attempt. I just need to be there. Lay there. Accept. Release. Relax into the moment.
In yoga and meditation, that is one of the goals. To let go, and “be”. To BE fully present in the moment and accept that where we are is right where we are meant to be.
And in that moment…it’s exactly perfect. I am where I am meant to be, doing what I am meant to do.
And I laugh for the sheer joy of that. For love of HIM for bringing me to that place over and over again.
He makes me giddy, full, alive.
It’s not the pained laughter as he torments my poor feet. It’s not the writhing struggling laughter as he tickles my armpits, or my waist, or my belly.
It’s the laughter of pleasured glee. The giggles post-orgasm. The rolling laugh as we exchange witty barbs, when He is laughing along with me. When our bodies are just … brimming with the delighted joy of satiety in one another’s company. (I was going to say conjugal delight in our company, but it is deeper than flesh.)
It is the laughter of two hearts joined in a union of opposite, yet equally twisted desires, each equally matched to pleasure the other.
And that my friends, is the best part of all.