He stayed where he was in suspended animation, remaining poised above me, and looking down into my eyes.
I turned to suppress a small sob, but he wasn’t having that.
“No, look at me, Tabby. I need to see your eyes, and I need you to see mine.”
Ever the obedient submissive kitten, I did as I was told, even in the knowledge that the look in his sparkling baby-blues would be too much and I would likely dissolve.
Very quietly, he waited until my sobs had subsided, and then bent down gently and kissed me on the nose.
“I love you. I love all of you. I love fucking you. Your cunt, your ass, your mouth, your boobs…. your mind. I love every bit of you. What we have is ours. It’s special. Nothing that goes on anywhere else can ever touch what we have.”
I felt a tear wend its way down the bridge of my nose, and then fall sideways onto the pillow.
“Look into my eyes. No, don’t turn away, look into them. What do you see?”
A trifle sheepishly I looked into his eyes again. It’s often said that the eyes are the windows to the soul, but I’ve never been very good at interpreting a “look”. As a trained actor, I’m far more adept at deciphering the strange convulsive ability of the facial muscles than the somewhat nebulous quality of pupil, iris and retina.
However, this time, to my astonishment, I saw love. In his eyes. Almost tangibly radiating out of them — I could see it, feel it, sense it.
“Well? What do you see?”
An all-purpose sniffle, a deep breath and then, very quietly:
“Yes. Know that this is true. That this has been true for… how long is it now? Since we met and fell in love? Know it. Internalize it. Believe in it. You are not a dalliance, you are not tertiary, you are my sub, my Pink Tabby, you are someone I care for deeply, respect enormously and love very, very much. Nothing else has any effect on that. Nothing, ever.”
Through my tears, I felt the sincerity of his words resonate somewhere deep inside me. Trite though it may sound, I felt a peace spreading through me, emanating outwards from where I imagine my soul to live, nestled somewhere snugly behind my heart and ribcage.
He finally lowered himself onto the mattress next to me, and gathered me close to him, stroking my hair until my tears subsided, planting tiny delicate kisses wherever he could find skin that wasn’t obscured by my tangled mane of pulled and disarrayed hair.
As tight as he held me, I held on to him even tighter, wanting to absorb his inner peace and calm into me, wanting to meld with him, wanting the moment to be endless. He held me tighter, winding his fingers through my tangles and pulling my head back, eliciting the requisite squeal of pleasure-pain that it always does, and causing a potential pool to collect down south.
We kissed, a kiss of intensity and love and pain and pleasure and longing and lust and meaning and feeling and deep, deep desire. And then, even more intensely than we had kissed, we fucked. Fucked hard, fucked long, fucked each other until we sweated, panted and cried out in ecstatic joy. A fuck, in other words, to write home about.
And a vanilla one at that.
Post-orgasmically, I roused myself from our tangled stupor to laughingly note this to him.
“We just had vanilla sex! That’s hilarious!”
He cackled in his most evil, rotten, flower-wielding feline manner.
“Not exactly vanilla, dear. There was kink.”
“If you say so, darling.”
“There was, definitely. And as you well know, once you kink you can never go bink.”
“Well, I’d hate to go bink at any rate.”
There you have it, people. Once you kink, you can never go bink. In case that was your dread fear in life.
(I love you, evil, rotten cat. <3)