All right, gentle readers, after ten years of reading the stories on this lovely site I have decided to pop my cherry and submit something. Please be gentle *head back, back of my wrist to my forehead*.
I welcome, crave, desire, want and need feedback BUT please be constructive at least. Constructive: did you know you changed that character's name from *** to ####. Not Constructive: I hated that character's name. Pick your box wisely.
Recently told a Dom, i had been having fantasies about him, when he asked what they were, i wrote it up and sent it to him in a serialized form over the course of a week
With his permission and encouragement, i am reprinting them here…
You step away from me again and again I feel the loss. Your touch is precious to me and I miss it when it's gone. I remember joking in the beginning how I was becoming addicted to your touch and that joke has become a reality.
I hear you pick something up and although I know it's a flogger I listen closely hoping to discern which one it is. Why this information is so vital, I have no idea. Whichever one it is, it will be used and I will have to endure it.
I hear a soft swish and make a mental guess. When I feel the feathery touch of the lightest flogger, I feel gratified that I have guessed right. Small triumphs in this place of continued darkness.
The first sweeps of the flogger feel almost ephemeral and tender, something to awaken for sleepy flesh. You avoid my tender behind which I appreciate but my legs down to my ankles and my back from my behind to my neckline are fair game. When the falls brush the backs of my knees it almost tickles.
I fall into the rhythmic strikes, my heartbeat eventually matching the hits. I feel myself melt away, walls go down as my mind whirls away. A curious vulnerability steals over me, a feeling that I can only allow to emerge in a place of safety. All feelings of self-consciousness and self-doubt fade and I just exist.
I exist for this, for your pleasure, for pleasing you. When you change floggers, I barely notice whether you work your way up or down the intensity level. The rhythm stays the same and that all that matters as I shift ever closer to that sublime place called subspace.
Like a climax in reverse, I feel it steal over me. Instead of a mad explosion, this is implosion as I fall into myself or the self I am with you at times like this. The room seems to grow strangely quiet, narrowed down to the strike of the flogger, our breathing, and nothing else. Behind the blindfold, I imagine arcs of electricity joining us. In this, I see the power exchange so many talk about made visual.
I long for the words to tell you what I see and what I understand in this moment. I want to tell you how special you are to me and how grateful I am that you take the time to give me this but the words as usual are not there. That longing too fades away and I let it go. This is not the place for wants.
Thoughts like gossamer strands form and break in my mind. Questions breeze though and for this time I am able to let them just float by without the burning urge to consider them or answer them. Like a babe in the womb I float, the strike of the flogger a mother's heartbeat.
When it ends at first I don't notice caught up in the simple mindlessness of subspace. My body continues to sway to strikes that never come. Only when you approach and release my hands do I realize its over. When you lower my arms, they ache slightly from being up for so long. I sway against you, our activities of the last bit of time finally catching up with me.
I stand there silently as you remove the cuffs from my wrists and ankles and remove the spreader bar. My eyes are closed behind the blindfold. I sway slightly the only thing holding me up are your quiet murmurs of 'hang on, just a little longer'.
When you finish removing the hardware, you stand in front of me and remove the blindfold. The fading sunlight in the room as bright as high noon to my eyes. I blink at the sudden return of sight before my eyes find yours. I give an inner sigh of relief that the former coolness is gone, and the warmth and affection I have come to expect are back. The pleasure and respect are also present and welcome.
I reach up and pull your head down to mine and we kiss. I run my fingers through your hair and over your goatee. The relief at having my hands is immense and it feels new to touch you again. The other side of my being addicted to your touch is being addicted to touching you. I want to purr at the sheer wonder of feeling your flesh under my fingers again.
You pull away and look me deep in the eyes, your hand in its usual place over my heart. “Are you okay,” you ask, concern clear in your voice. Okay, I want to say, no I'm not okay, I'm fabulous, I am marvelous, I am a 1000 things and okay is merely the least of them but as usual words fail me.
You have taken us on a perilous journey and brought us safely home. What else could a submissive ask for? I give you my best smile as I nod as vigorously as my tiredness will allow. You look at me for another long minute before smiling yourself and leading me over to your chair.
You sit down and I curl up in your lap. I lay my head on your chest, content and sleepy. You wrap something warm around me and I am glad for it as the endorphins of our play begin to wear off. You rain down kisses on my hair and face and I luxuriate in it. Your hand stokes softly over my side and legs and the rhythm further urges me toward sleep.
I fight the urge for a bit, despite my tiredness I still want to do things and have things done. Something about being with you makes me insatiable except in small doses.
Finally, sick of my restlessness, you say, “Relax, we still have the rest of the weekend,” And with that realization, I let go and fall asleep.