It Was A Date

We met for ice cream. The place was pretty busy, and He was late. Okay, not “late” but I was there before Him. I sat at a table watching the comings and goings, feeling tired from work, but content to wait.

I guess I was really exploring liminal time, that time between. I didn’t have to “do” anything but just be there. Just sit, just watch, just be.

It was glorious.

And then His car pulled in.

And I was transported from the calm tranquility of liminal time to the blissful joy I get when I first see Him. It always sends a thrill through me. Butterflies in my tummy, a rush of love through my body. Yes, I can *feel* it, that non-sexual love for this Man of mine. It coats me from the inside out. And yes, there is sexual love for Him too, but what rises up at the outset, like cream to the top of the milkpail, is the rush of pure love.

And then there is the touch, the smell of Him. That’s when the sex rush begins. That’s when I know I’m with my Master, that simply laying my lips on His, then my head upon His shoulder reclaims each of us to the other.

But this isn’t a sexual meeting, it’s face time. It’s a communion of ice cream, and a reconnecting, Master and slut. It’s a date. I run my fingers down his arm, he kisses me. We eat our ice cream together, watching the cows in the field. There’s some sexual talk…about cows, no less, and some family talk. There’s talk about my potential new job (cross your fingers and send blue bubbles, peeps!), and about his kids.

It’s a date.

We slurp our way through quick-melting confections. I fetch him extra napkins, some water to wipe with. He flicks water on my face, we laugh.

And it’s time to.

(Oh, how hard to write that last word.)


Step apart.

Leave this little bubble of time.

A lump forms in my throat, my head rests on his shoulder, he rubs my back. I pat his ass. And try to not think about parting as we walk towards my car.

It’s a date, and I’m leaving.

And He pins me against my car and pinches the fuck out of my arm. Along the sweaty topside, where His fingers catch and hold my flesh. Then along the side of my belly. Right *there*. And holds it. Pincering His fingers together- I can barely breathe. My head falls onto His shoulder, and I make funny noises.

He laughs.

And Laughs.

And I’m on tip-toe and making whimpery noises and trying to swallow and breathe and speak…

And He laughs.

And stops.

I breathe.




And He reaches for my arm once again. No way to dodge into my car to get away, I’m plastered against it. Stuck.

He’s so fucking subtle.

NO one sees.

No one sees a thing. But I feel.

Oh gods I feel.

Pain, such explosions of pain. I’m out of practice, you see. Next to zero masturbation during the heat, even choosing to forgo my Tuesday orgasm. No pegs, no clamps, no dark assignments from Him.

This hurt.

So. Fuckity Fucking. Much.

Little quick snaps of His fingers against my arm (bruising even before we parted), tickling my armpit, teasing me with giggling fits, while serving me a dish filled to overflowing with hurty goodness.

Finally He allows me to get into my car, then grabs my ponytail, snapping my neck back, hard, while reaching inside to deliver one final, bruising pinch just above my armpit.

I’ll wear these marks all week.

And glory in them.

NO, friends.

I was wrong.

OH, so wrong.

This wasn’t a date at all.

This was Master time.

How glorious.