Anticipation

I am flushed,
His name on my lips
This little warm desire spreads through me
and swells, this
sudden lack of oxygen this
breathless rush of heat this
need that burns through.

Too bad I'm at work... and too bad He is so busy this week. Even if I do see Him there will be others around. No real punishment, just more promise.
It will be days and days before I am with Him again.
He sends me messages, makes His wishes known.
I confess my sins, my infractions and the tension in me grows tighter with each anticipated smack of punishment, each anticipated reward.
I struggle to steady my hands.
I lose focus.
At night I sleep with the smell of leather, the memory of sweat and sting.

Named and Punished

Sir has named me and I am distracted by the pleasure of this.
All day, His soft voice so deep in my mind: my name over and over.
I was His anyway, but now it is more solid.
Tangible.

And last night my first punishment.
One small infraction - one oversight.
Punishment pain so different from pleasure pain: there is shame in it, and
disappointment.
All I want is to please Him, and to fail him - even slightly, even when I am tired is heartbreaking. All the way home, and for hours I waited for Him to decide it was time. I apologized and He smiled, "That's not going to save you." His voice so soft and sweet that I shivered.
And I was scared. Not scared of Him, but scared that I wouldn't be able to take it. Scared that I would disappoint Him in this, too.
When it came it hurt. It was not loving and sensuous like before.
I knew I deserved it and I knew that this pain would cleanse me, restore me for Him.
I stretched my arms over my head, wrists crossed.
I clenched my jaw, my back tensed and I cried... but I did not move.
I did not beg Him to stop.
I did not even think the safe word...

When it was over He held me and kissed me and I did feel whole and loved and stronger.

He was proud of me.

But then this morning I did use the safe word.

Still sore from last night I rolled away from Him when He switched to something harder...
I rolled back, knowing what I had done and I tried to be strong enough.

I know that the safe word is important. That it is there for me and for Him. That not using it when I need to means He can't trust me... but it still feels like failure. Still feels like disappointment.

Now it hurts to sit. The skin tender and singing when I move. My throat is raw, my arms sore.
But I am named and I am His.

One Thousand Miles

An entire time zone away,
but when it is dark and I am dreaming it is

His hands tangled in my hair
His teeth sharp on my skin
His voice that comforts me and carries me through these long nights.
In those moments when I am just waking I think I smell Him, taste Him.

And then I am awake and He is not here and He is not coming here.

He is at home. He is at work. He is otherwise occupied.
(Does He miss me? Am I in His thoughts at all?)
I get sentimental. My bruises fade. I drink too much. I go to bed.
And it is dark again...

I want pain and sweet and
I want more than I am ready for.

I want to know what He wants...

Trust

It's weird for me. The amount of trust it takes to enter into this kind of relationship... to even consider this kind of relationship. And trust is not something I'm not at all good at. Not absolute trust. Not like this. But I do trust him. (More or less completely). There is a little reserve still... it's still early in this and my trust issues (with Him and in general) have been planted deeply and reinforced. I'm getting there.

I can't explain it really, why I am willing to hand over this amount of control to Him. I would not be able to explore this part of myself with anyone else. And "control" is absolutely the wrong word. It gives the wrong impression. This is necessarily a symbiotic relationship. He can only take what I give Him and I can only take what He gives me.

So what makes Him so special?

I'm not really sure. On the outside He is a perfectly normal guy. A "nice guy" with kids and a job. He is important enough to the people around Him, but there is nothing immediately evident that separates Him from a hundred other nice guys with kids and jobs.

We were so very young when we met, and then we only knew each other peripherally for several years. I remember His eyes though, and the intensity of His gaze. It scared me then. It looked like anger and made me feel like there wasn't enough oxygen in the room.

When He looks at me like that now it doesn't scare me, and it doesn't look like anger, but the oxygen still seems thin.
When He looks at me like that now I can feel the constriction and focus shift to Him.
When He looks at me like that now I want to raise my arms in surrender.
When He looks at me like that now He doesn't even have to touch me.

There is something that pulses under His steadiness. Something that is always present but never exactly clear, if you look for it it disappears like smoke. There is something in Him that understands and speaks to something in me. And I am listening...

Beginning

There are opposing forces in me; two separate but entirely equal impulses: "let go, give in, submit" and "fightfightfight!!"

Insolent, independent, defiant.
Compliant, needy, eager to please.
Him. Only Him.

I want to taunt Him, challenge His resolve. Assert that He can not break me, shouldn't try. I want to set my jaw and breathe the slow, deep breaths of battle lines drawn. I want to fight and resist Him. To punish Him for even trying to break through.
And.
I want to bow my head, lay myself out as offering. I want to plead for mercy. I want to receive Him, to take whatever comes as treasure, as gift, as blessing. I want to be led away from comfort, led from the oxygen that feeds my consciousness, away from the presence of anything but that sweet sting of smack.

But that is challenging Him, too. Taking it, accepting the fury of His love without complaint is asking (demanding) more. Harder. Better. Stronger.

I want to demand "stop" and "more" in the same sharp inhalation of breath.
I want to count these bruises as memento, this proof of life, these love letters as they bloom and fade and are replaced.

He is also a study in contrasts: kind and sweet and gentle, but also unyielding and absolute. Consistent and unpredictable.

He is hard like granite, smooth and icy and unbreakable.
He is pliable and sweet, tender and careful.

His strength is a lush and fragrant valley, abundance and comfort. It is safety and respite. It is calming.
His weakness is barren rock, hot desert. Badlands.

I avoid the Badlands.
My impulse is to set out like an explorer, pack filled with provisions, ready to discover, to tame. That impulse is foolish - I would never make it through that wild.
He would never forgive my trespass.

He will break me. He will push me past breaking.
He will watch as I disappear and then rise again like a Phoenix.