It’s happening again.
That lurch in my chest, that belly ache. The wild sense of fear and loneliness has somehow returned in flashes here and there. I can’t decipher if it’s because of the year I’ve had with him or because my life has primed me for fear of loss.
The funny thing is loss hasn’t killed me yet, so why would it now? Fear is an infection on my life. It steals the beauty of a bright blue day with sounds of twittering life on the breeze. It robs the beauty of a moment between lips and thighs and puffs of breath. It decimates the beauty of a feeling between beings, that raw, wondrous energy one human transfers to another. Fear is death of all things beauty.
I’ve lost much in my life, like most — I’m no different from the hipsters sitting next to me. Loss isn’t just a death of a being, it’s also the death of a thing, a feeling, an agreement. Divorce is the death of a life planned and hoped for. The death of love and trust, even faith.
And yet, I’m still kicking. No loss has gotten the best of me. I continue to grow, feel, love. Why am I so afraid, then?
It confounds me that I fear losing TN so much. What would happen to me? I wonder. Well, I would hurt. I would ache and flail and sob and shrivel up a little, but I wouldn’t die. Perhaps I would find beauty in my pain. I believe it exists there because pain is life and life is art. Some put it on our bodies, others turn it out. I put it into letters on pages and sometimes I put it into my pussy.
Pain is unavoidable and grand simultaneously. It’s reassurance that we’re here.
And: I am falling in love with him all over again. That’s why I fear.
I’ve been avoiding writing that sentence — even saying it to myself — for weeks now, but it’s unavoidably true.
I do. I love him. Perhaps I always will, I don’t know.
Switching to the top, becoming his Domme, has transformed me. I feel as though it’s where I should have always been. I feel frantic about it and stupidly calm. He needs me to care, I need him to need me. Why has it taken me this long in my life to surrender to this? Would this have saved my marriage? I’m certain my ex-husband would have plugged into this — wait, I should never speak in absolutes — I’m confident he would have liked it. Maybe it would have salvaged our broken promises from the wreckage.
Feeling TN’s desire for me to care, to take charge, to reprimand him and tug him this way and that lights my insides like a Roman candle. The trust between us is growing, my love expanding, and thus, my fear. I am juggling two kittens and an ax. One wrong toss and the kittens are ribbons and my hand gone.
We have spent night upon night together cuddling and/or inside each other — literally and figuratively. Since last Monday, we haven’t played with our new roles much other than setting light boundaries. The way he speaks to me, for example, is up for review. He gets punished when he says things on the assumption that I am silly or that I am old. It’s a brilliant way of communicating.
Me: I’m going to get an ice-cube for your bottom now.
Him: But the water will drip down!
Me (firm and holding up one finger): That’s 1, TN.
Him (thinking): It’s because I assumed you wouldn’t take care of the drips, right?
Me: Yes. Good boy. (SMACK!)
Me (as I’m cooking us dinner): Could you please put the dishes in the dishwasher away?
Him (smiling): Why?
Me (smiling back): Because of my bad back and because it’ll help me stay organized.
Him (with a face-splitting grin): It’s because you’re old, right?
Me (also still smiling): That’s 2. You are not to make fun of my age any more.
Him: Yes Ma’am.
Touching him, his cock, his lips. I feel as though they’re mine. I require a kiss now before he leaves. He always presents his bottom for a nice smack, but then I pull him back in to feel his 5 o’clock shadow on my face and under my fingertips, his pliant, warm lips on mine. I take what I need and he obliges.
Sunday he donned another pair of my panties and vacuumed my apartment for me. I languished on the couch in my yellow dress, breasts to my chin, and mused that I should probably invest in a nice vacuum cleaner, one that wouldn’t wrench my back each time I used it. He stopped the rhythmic push and pull and stood up straight, and looked at me.
“I don’t think I like that idea.”
“Why not?”
“Because then you wouldn’t need me.”
And so the story goes. He wants me to need him as much as I want him to need me, though we dance around labels and real commitment and loving each other as openly and proudly as we are able.
This week I felt myself unraveling. That fear of loss has me stumbling and gasping. He has pulled back infinitesimally and it I feel like it’s the Titanic to my iceberg. It’s ridiculous: He didn’t want to cuddle with me Tuesday night. It was the first night in weeks that we didn’t spend time with limbs entwined. And last night, as we cuddled and he said firmly for me not to touch his beautiful cock with my mouth or pussy, he wasn’t forthcoming with details for his plans on Thursday.
“I don’t remember what they are,” he said, eyes closed, brow knit.
“You don’t remember?” I asked, clearly not believing him.
“Yeah, I don’t. I’m all out of it tonight.”
And just like that, the seed was planted. He has plans with a woman! I thought. They’re probably just friends, but he doesn’t want to tell me. What does that mean? How am I supposed to respond?? I’m like a dog with a bone.
When asked, he assured me that We were cool, that he was just in a bad mood and that it had nothing to do with me. I emphasized that he was welcome to discuss any problems with me if he had them. He accused me of being insecure. I scoffed at that. He had the wrong reaction to deduce that. Yes, I am insecure, but guaranteeing open lines of communication is not the indicator.
When I see him, my heart skips, my eyes twinkle. He loves on me, cuddles me, kisses my shoulder, strokes my hair. He humps me.
When he was vacuuming my bedroom I jumped on the bed, lay on my stomach with ankles crossed. His erection was mighty and straining at the cotton of my panties. He turned the machine off and came around to my face. I patted his meat and breathed on him.
“Lay down,” I told him and we switched spots.
I pulled my panties down over his hips and fell on him with my mouth. I crawled up the length of him and he popped my breasts out of the top of my dress and sucked on them with exquisite perfection. I slid down back between his knees and when I stood up we laughed because his cock was caught under my dress, popping a yellow plaid tent between us.
I reached down and grabbed his shaft. “It looks like it’s mine,” I said. He pulled up the fabric of my dress and I stood there with no panties on with a giant cock leaping out at him. Again we laughed as I took a picture. It really is mine. We both know it, though never say it.
I rode him and he rode me, hearts pounded. It was the old TN and Hy. No D/s, just me losing my shit and him reveling in it. “God, I love fucking you!” he said over and over. I thrashed beneath him naked, my breasts round Jello domes of jiggle, my eyes fluttered to his unable to keep eye contact. If only I could get him to remove one word.
Monday night shifted things inside of me. For a few hours my fear was gone. I know I have no control, I know that life will do as it wills, I know I am insignificant. But for a few hours I was in charge of something important to me: Him and Us.
I scribbled words of devotion all over his body, though he didn’t know that’s how I meant them: “glorious cock,” “yummy chest,” “broad shoulders,” and, over his heart, “Good Boy”. If he ever finds this blog I hope he sees the love seeping out of every word I’ve ever written about him, good, bad, or ugly.
He wrote on me. It was his reward for behaving: “magnificent breasts,” “sexy, horny slut,” “hottest, wettest best pussy ever” with a little arrow to my shaved vulva.
My fear of loss, my need for love. They are constantly warring, constantly pulling me into a million little different directions.
I can’t say more. I feel shy and protective of him now; I am incapable of sharing the details of the D/s encounters, my fingers will not move, but I feel beautifully vulnerable sharing the changes in me and the other wonderful sex and things between us. I think I’m ok with the fear.
I think I’m happy.
