Food, fun and committment

“You may eat the cookie, but you may not use your hands.”

That dastardly cat. He baits me with chocolate chunky cookies that would tempt the Archangel Gabriel (Garcia Marquez?) and he know — he knows! — I will be powerless to resist. However, I have a secret weapon — my all-encompassing ability to eat, despite prevailing circumstances.

Delicately i take the cookie from his proffered hand, with the edges of my lips and teeth… and then open my mouth (not even that wide) and take the whole thing into my mouth.

Wow, that’s the first time I’ve written that on these pages, and not been describing fellatio. Heh.

Purrrrvert cracks up, as do I, and we laugh our asses off.

There i am, nakedly draped over the back of an armchair, wrists cuffed and caribbena’d together, and he is dancing around me, eating cookies, and allowing me sips of Coke Zero here and there, spanking me occasionally with a newly mended flogger, and swatting at my ass with a fish-slice. In addition to the passionate lovemaking, the sub-space inducing flogging and beating (oh, evil kitchen-utensil-pervertibles) and the eight or nine orgasms that I have already experienced, (the cooling wet spot on the bed being hard evidence of this), we have also found time to have fun.

It’s what indicates that the “essence” of what we do, is so much more than fucking. We like spending time together. We’ve had most of the afternoon together, and the evening stretches ahead of us like a long empty road, yet to be traveled.

I don’t think I have ever been so happy. I cherish the feeling like velvet against my heart. He completes me. My own journey is still in its infant stages, but it progresses with alacrity, and I already know that as a person I am healthier and more together than I have ever been before, in all my 39-plus-one-mumble-mumble years of existence.

I say as much to him later. Several hours have passed, and we have repaired to the best local Japanese joint to indulge in a sushi-fest.

We’re sitting at an intimate little corner table, the waitress having seen the way he looks at me, and given me a conspiratorial grin, before leading us to what appears to be the most romantic nook in the restaurant. I couldn’t care less, to be honest. Wherever I am with him, the rest of the world fades into oblivion.

We’re discussing the notion of collaring, and commitment. Conceptually, I mean. I wanted to understand, from BDSM context, how significant a collar is — both to the collared and the collarer.

He laughs, and spreads his hands wide. “Collaring is, as with pretty much anything in BDSM, dependent upon the individual for the amount of significance behind it. There are those who take it very seriously, and perceive it much as one would perceive a marriage. There are also those who can talk to someone for five minutes and be “collared and owned” within a week. Different strokes for different folks.”

I know this man, and without asking, I know that he takes collaring very seriously, and say as much.

“Yes, you’re quite right. I do. It’s a very serious symbol of commitment, and I respect it as such.”

I nod sagely. Genuinely sagely, before you snicker.

He continues.

“However, you know my feelings about outward symbolism. I don’t need it. When I commit, I commit with everything I have, without any need to display it publicly.”

I look him straight in the eye, and feel my heart beat faster — that’s the effect he has on me.

“Me too. For me, the commitment, and the love, and the everything are all part of the same package.”

He smiles, and takes my hand, stroking it softly.

“I know that your feelings about outward symbols are similar to mine. If that ever changes, you only need to let me know.”

I am overwhelmed by emotion, and feeling. While deep down I knew of his assured and complete commitment and devotion to me, hearing this affirmation does not fail to move me, visibly and emotionally.

He reaches out to hold my hand, and my eyes fill with unexpected tears of joy.

And no, it wasn’t the wasabi.