Dateline: Thanksgiving evening
The house is cleaned up, the dishes are washed, pies and other foodstuffs have been divvied up. Things are back in their proper places and the house is poised for the sounds of young children to begin the exuberant task of “decking the halls”. I am happily weary as this day of Thanksgiving winds down. Truly this was one of the best days, ever.
Yet lurking in the back corners of my mind, the sound of a clock ticking down.
This brings a quick smile to my lips, a faint tingle to my pussy, a quick indrawn breath as the words boing around inside my head.
Date with Master.
Date with Master.
Date with Master.
Oh, did you feel that? A shiver. Quick, lightning quick it was. The thought that dances in and out of my head–Big Red.
Kinda like poking your tongue into a cavity. NO! OUch! Don’t…but inevitably, that pokey tongue heads back there…and back there…and back there.
Big Fucking Red. *shiver*
And all these other, associative thoughts:
So many intertwined thoughts. Feelings. Needs. Desires pushing themselves to the forefront of my brain. “Pick me! Pick me! I’m your biggest need. No I am!” I tell you it’s like a frigging chorus.
And wrapped through it all, a thin but present ribbon, is fear.
Freaky, eh? I’m not “afraid” of Him. I trust Him implicitly. He holds my life in His hands, so…ya. I do trust Him to not harm me. To not push beyond the boundaries of reasonability. (whatever the fuck that means!) But fear of the pain, mostly. Not Him inflicting it.
It’s fear of my receiving it. Of “handling it” appropriately. Not being a wuss. Or a weenie (I’m not, just for the record!). Of being there and what rational, clear-thinking woman goes into a room with a man who is going to beat the snot out of her?
This kind of woman. (points to self)
And this whole discussion is weird. Coz yanno…it just is. And some of it..most of it, perhaps ALL of it when you come down to it, is because it’s been MONTHS since our last playtime.
I’m out of “pain practice”!!
Because really? You all know I’m a painslut. I like to be hurt. More—I need to be hurt. I need it sexually, I need it mentally. It breaks down my barriers, gives me release (again, sexually and mentally) and it makes me…i dunno…clean I guess. Maybe clean isn’t all of it either. Empty. He empties me of pent-up drek, and leaves me tethered back on terra firma, drained of all the bullshit that life throws at me and I store up like a hoarder of all things bullshit.
(that’s a pretty good analogy but it makes me laugh, too. A hoarder of all things bullshit…that’s a good one!)
His beatings release that in me. There are some tears…not many. I LOATHE that kind of crying (but I’m so sentimental/emo that I’ll cry when I read things on Facebook or some commercials on tv, or something tender my kids say–but those are different tears). Mostly I grunt, groan, moan…and *blush*…call my Master a mean Asshole/Bastard/Fucking Asshole. 🙂 (it makes Him laugh)
And when the release is occurring, as the gasps and moans are clearing my drek, there comes another epiphanal moment.
Subspace is pretty fuckin’ awesome too! Well worth the price of admission. Flying. Soaring. The feeling of being full of power–and utterly powerless.
And alive–so fucking, amazingly, alive.
Buuuuuut….between here and there. That’s the sticking point, isn’t it? (for all of us, likely, right?)
It’s the getting there that brings those nerves to the fore. I *like* pain…but it also ….welllllll… it hurts, dammit! One must get through those first few blows, start to ride the adrenaline, the endorphins before all the good stuff kicks in. Once I’m over that first sharp smack, I’m good. I might fight or tense up for the next one, or the next…chanting “relax, breathe” through each blow…but eventually there is a total unclenching. The pain is there, oh hell yes. But suddenly it’s manageable and rideable and oh yes yesyesyes I’m frigging flying.
His words resonate in my head.
“This will be the most painful playdate you’ve ever experienced.”
There’s been a few tough ones, to be sure. Good tough. The last playdate was almost all pleasure. I loved it, who doesn’t like an overload of pleasure, right? But I craved (missed) the pain too. He was recovering from an injury and gave me what He could.
But I wanted more.
Craven whore that I am, I wanted to be beat to a pulp. I wanted to be savaged, bitten, hit, marked, used. There have been playdates in the past where the following week is a dead-blur to me, all I can do is get up out of bed and move through my day as best as possible.
And I like it.
You know, I’ll take whatever Master-time I can get. I’ll take whatever He gives me. I want it, need it, crave it. He’s created this need in me, fostered it, developed it, whetted my appetite for it. But there is no script, no playbook. Our time together flows from one whim of His to the next.
Will He use the brush, the cane, my shoe? No way to know. Only the sharp smack of some implement on my flesh, my yelp, the sudden spark and heat of that impact on my skin. When the time comes for us to part, for me to open that door, to leave Him, it is with regret that it is over. How could it be over? The time goes so quickly, when the countdown to a meeting goes so slowly. Not fair.
So, for now I plan to savor the moments between now and then, to be happy and accepting and fun and giggly and…His.