He often refers to sex with me as “taking me” or “having me”. Poetry, without euphemism. And I can’t help but love something as subtle as his diction.
Last weekend I was emotional, clingy, needy.
On Friday night, after a long week of studying, Master brought me to his place for the weekend.
It was late when we got in and after I had changed into my slip and cuffs and collar, I found him lying in bed, on his stomach, with his eyes closed. Without even looking up, he instructed me to give him a massage. There was nothing unusual about his request, but on that night, he may as well have locked me away in a cupboard. I was crushed by his decision.
I knelt up on the bed and as I glided my hands over the oil-slathered muscles, I chastised myself in my head. I had no right to be so disappointed just because he didn’t feel like hugging, or kissing, or petting me at the moment. I had no right to be disappointed because he wanted to relax and wanted me to serve him.
I kissed his body, and worked my hands down his calves, but when I came to the soles of his feet, I just felt so far away from him and tears welled up in my eyes. I tried to blink them back, so that he wouldn’t see me being so silly or selfish. But even though his head was down, and my back was turned to him, and my tears were silent, he still sensed that something was wrong.
He turned on his side, and called me to sit by him. I looked away, embarrassed by my outburst. He pulled me down onto my back, and climbed on top of me. At first he held me, and I wrapped my arms around him as he kissed my cheeks and eyelids. Then, he put one hand around my neck and with his other hand, slapped me. The blow was not terrible, but it was unexpected, and I cried more.
“I can do what I want with you,” he told me.
“Yes Master,” I squeaked, although I wished—in my heart—for him to stop hurting me.
He attempted to fuck me—which told me a lot about his sexual need at the moment—since he is usually extremely reluctant to have sex when I’m on my period. But between my period, and a lingering yeast infection, I tensed up as he tried to push his cock inside of me.
“Relax your legs,” he said, as he pushed my raised knees down. I tried, but when he pushed himself in again, I howled and clenched all my muscles.
“Relax,” he repeated, his voice now low and growling, “relax your legs now.”
But this was now deep, real, visceral pain and my silent tears became choking, breathy sobs. “It hurts Master, I’m sorry, it hurts so much.”
“I’m going to have you,” he said, “and you'll stop complaining and take it.”
He made a motion to drive his cock into me again, but all of a sudden, as if some unforseen force had jerked him back, he stopped. In the pause, the snarl on his face slowly disappeared and he unclenched his fists and composed himself. “No, I’m not,” he said, “Not when it’s hurting you this badly.”
He went to the bathroom to clean up, leaving me spread out on the bed. When he came back, he scooped me up in his arms.
“I’m so sorry, Master.”
He kissed my forehead. We lay together for a few minutes, before he responded. “I think it would be a good idea for me to be strict with you this weekend; you are stressed and I think it will give you some release.”
In retrospect, I can see how it was a good thought, but at the time, my eyes widened and the reluctance showed in my voice, even though I responded with: “Whatever you want, Master.”
We were both quiet.
“Hmm,” he said, after evaluating the situation. “I have a better idea.” He got up and brought back a short length of white, nylon rope. “I’ll tie you to me; so you’ll never be more than a couple of feet away from me this weekend.”
I smiled and gigled, as he tied the rope to my wrist cuff and then to him.
“Thank you Master,” I said and kissed his hands, before we fell asleep, curled and bound together.
There are a few points I want to make, related to the above story:
- Later on in the weekend, I felt like my period was lightening up and my vagina was generally feeling better, so asked Master if he would fuck me. He said no—just in case it was still too painful. He explained to me that it took a lot of willpower for him to stop, when he is already inside me. “The testosterone makes me even more aggressive,” he explained, “and it makes me want to just shut you up and show you who’s boss.” I didn’t fully appreciate the amount of willpower it took for him to withdraw when I was in pain, the willpower it took for him to comfort me instead of finding another means of indulging himself. His self-control astounds and awes me—especially since I acted exactly the opposite; giving in to my rampant hormones and emotion.
- In retrospect, typing up the above anecdote (up until the painful part) and his little statement about wanting to shut me up and show me who’s boss, really aroused me. I think feeling physically unwell at the time really amplified my negative emotional response. I can’t wait for this studying crunch time to be over and my maladies to resolve, so that I can focus on him and he can focus on using me in whatever way he sees fit. I want him to be strict with me, and put me in my place, and hit me when I’m bad, and hit me even when I’m not, and shut me up when I whine. I want him to objectify me, and use me, and parade me around like a toy. I want him to be the one to make me cry. I want to be on my knees until they ache, wear the nipple clamps in public, dress scandalously, dress and act as his slave publicly, do everything and anything he wants, serve him endlessly. And I know that I will have moments of crankiness, and aversion to pain or humiliation or domestic tasks, but I want him to hold me to me duties and remind me of my place. He is a amazing Master, an incredible man, the love of my life, and he deserves nothing less.
- I was sure I had a third point when I started this. I tend to cluster things in threes because I’m anal retentive. Even though, I can’t remember what I was going to say, I'm leaving this completely unnecessary third paragraph here for aesthetic purposes.