I could sit here and write a long and tedious blogpost about life, and rain, and sunshine, gardens, and anal play and tentacles.
But I won’t.
Tonight I’m thinking about what He’ll do if I forget to bring my nipple clamps and weights. Tonight I’m wondering which shoes He’ll bring for me to wear, and how hard He’ll hit with that fucking pink hairbrush.
I’m thinking, too, about how long it’s been since a long and extended pain session, and how fucking long since I had an orgasm (Tuesday, people. Fucking Tuesday!)
I’m fretting a bit…can I walk in 6″ stiletto’s with an ankle that isn’t always happy to support me? That sounds like doubt…as if I need to worry about how He’ll care for me, about me, which is stupid, because He takes *excellent* care of His property. He is solicitous, which might sound strange to peeps new to this lifestyle. How can someone be solicitous of one whom He is preparing to beat the begeezuz out of?
Yet, He is.
He cares for me, about me, and will take good care of my stupid ankle.
And I worry…as always…can I take this? Can I take what He’ll dish out? Well, of course. There’s not an option once the door closes. He’ll fuck me, or fuck with me, however He chooses to. Hit me, slap me, pinch me….I’ll fall under His spell and all this nervous stuff will simply fall away. I won’t give two seconds of thought to my nerves once that door closes and locks behind me.
Consider all the sexy words have been put up on a shelf for the nonce…they’ll be back next week, but for now? They’re preempted.
Coz nilla is off to be royally fucked.