I Love His Face

It happened (cue schmaltzy music)…at last!

Not playtime, but time to be with one another for a brief hour. The sun was warm on the back of my calves as He leaned against the back of my car, as I leaned into Him. His hug was fierce, as was mine. I ran my hands over and over his face, kissing him randomly, hungrily.

We talked, we touched.

He pinched my belly so hard I had a deep purple bruise before the afternoon was done –and two more bloomed today! He has the most wicked pincers for fingers!

Looking at our schedules — his eyes clouded, my heart raced–our next planned playtime looked like it would be spoiled by travel plans he made months ago. But he recalled that he’d be back in time, his meeting was in the morning and he’d drive back that night, freeing him for our Saturday, mid-September playtime.

It was nice to see that he was as distressed as I felt. Those doms, man, they hold their cards against their chest all the time. But we’re both eager and greedy for one another now.

He had an amusing tale to share a few days ago, that I’ve had to promise to never share with anyone so long as I draw breath–and so I won’t. But for all its humor, it could have been a serious situation had he not been the kind of man he is–which reminded me yet again how fragile and tenuous this sort of LDR can be. I wouldn’t have know he was hurt or injured, just as he wouldn’t if the situation was reversed.

That’s pretty sobering, isn’t it?

This D/s thing–it’s fun and hard and serious and funny and real and imagined.

Yes, I said imagined. We all have fantasies, on both sides of the slash. Sometimes they come to life, or parts of them do. And sometimes they don’t and we have to learn that it’s okay, that we have to go forward and live our lives and make do with what we do get, however unsatisfying that can be at times.

Lately, I’ve been very unsatisfied.

Sure, I’ve been busy. But when you walk around paying homage to only part of yourself, ignoring that other (darker) side…that’s not good, is it?

I’m busy. I’m happy. I’m productive.

I’m a good wife, and a great mother, and one hell of an all-around housekeeper/yard keeper/honey-do list-doer. I’m a passable cook, though I despise cooking, and great at organizing, pet care, and tree maintenance. 😀

I’m also a fucking *awesome* slut.

But that side of me has been rather sluggish. She’s been packed up like the camping gear I won’t be needing again this year. She’s up on a shelf somewhere and sometimes I feel around up there to make certain she really is there (and she is)…but it goes no further than that. M and I had gone so long without seeing one another that he’d not even seen my new tattoo which I’d gotten in July. That’s 7, 8 weeks or so that we’ve gone (and I’ve been so busy I haven’t even tracked our last face time–or maybe it’s just self-preservation).

If I didn’t get some slut time with Master, I was gonna blow. That folded up slut on the shelf was going to rise up and …and…I dunno. But she wouldn’t be going back on the shelf as easily as I seemed to stick her up there, that’s for sure.

So face time. It was a brief opportunity. Not planned weeks in advance–you all know how well *that* has worked for us these last months. Just a quick call “can you meet me at CM around 10? You CAN? Woot!” and twenty minutes later, there we were. I launched myself at him. NO pride, NO shame, NO caring what anyone thought. There was my Master and I needed to touch him so badly.

The connection is electric. It–and I’ve said this before and you all who go through this know it too–it fed me. It gave me a dose of “what I need”.

He said something embarrassing and made me blush, which he pointed out, laughing. I hid my head on his chest, and he tugged it away, looked at me, then laughed again at my discomfiture…then hugged me hard.

“Can’t hide the truth, slut, can you?” He said, his tone amused, satisfied.

“You’re a slut, through and through.”

That shelf is empty — the slut has unfurled, and back where she belongs–a living, breathing, vibrant part of me once more.

Thank you Master.