Who I am

This is what I am.

A pervert, undiluted, unabashed and unashamed.

It is what it is.

I realised this yesterday, as I attemtped to refill Purrrrvert’s drinking glass.

The difficulties were that my wrists were cuffed to my ankles. He, of course, regarded the whole scene with an amused smirk on his face, and accepted the drink as his rightful due, before rolling me back on the bed and having his wicked way with me again.

(Oh, poor, poor me.)

I accept who I am, what I am.

I’ve never felt so alive, or so free. Even when restrained; perhaps especially.

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Floggerversary

It’s been a year.

A wonderful, thrilling, exciting, exhilarating, amazing year.

Last week, the Big Bad Cat and I celebrated a year since the day we met and fell in love at first sight. Or, as he called it, “the Loverversary.”

This week, it was the turn of my ass to relive the experience of being flogged red and shiny for the first time by a flogger-weilding feline.

Not forgetting my arms, which celebrated the anniversary of the first time they held him close to me, naked, content, post-orgasmic and purring.

And especially, a celebration in homage to the first time he straddled me across the bed, arms akimbo, secured to the bed posts with leather cuffs and canvas straps, and delighted in causing me to gush over and over again with sheer and ecstatic pleasure.

One whole year of my life, in which I have found myself completed in ways I did not even know I was fragmented.

I am truly blessed.

*************

Removing my restraints, he settles himself into cat nap pose, and indicates that I should join him.

“Come here, my cuddle-slut.”

“Ha! Talk about the cat calling the kitten pink. Look at you — you’re as much of a cuddle-slut as I am!”

“No, no, Pinky le Tab — you are the cuddle-slut. *I* is a cuddle-aholic.”

“No fair, why can’t I be a cuddle-aholic?”

“You can, you just need to pass the ultimate test first.”

“And that test would involve…?”

“The usual. Probing.”

Ulp.

“Er, probing of where, exactly?”

He slides a finger into my ass, and holds it there, knowing how I am aroused by this.

“When all his (*significant finger-wiggle*) fingers join him. Then you can achieve the ranks of cuddle-aholic.”

Eeeep!

I’ll keep you posted.

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Superior Support Required

The Girls are as much a part of me as any other, but since they protrude somewhat more that certain other areas, they are more distinct and noticeable.

Well, they do protrude from my body rather, it isn’t exactly easy to miss them. 🙂

Not that I give people much opportunity to miss them. In real life, they’re out there, real and spectacular. In virtual life, they’re out there on camera — check out my profile on Fetlife, if you don’t believe me. They’re the stars of the show. They even make the occasional appearance on my little corner of the Fetlife blogosphere.

Heh.

What I realised today, in conversation with a friend and fellow pervert, was that it was the Girls who got me into BDSM. No, seriously.

I shall explain for you, gentle reader — from your puzzled look and audible “Uh, wha…?” I can tell that I have somewhat puzzled you, Fear not, all will be revealed.

I lost my virginity — the original one — at age 21. Prior to that I had been almost-sexually active since I was 16 — and prior to that there had been a lot of snogging but not much else. (This is what happens when you grow up a nice Jewish girl.)

However, there was always boob-feelage. The girls, in all their incarnations and all their bra types and sizes (I went through a phase of wearing sports bras for years — not the cool tops I wear now when i’m pyjama-ing it at home, but actual white bras, with little crossed tennis rackets in the middle-y area, instead of the traditional bow — they were comfortable to the point of being able to sleep in them, but they made me look awful) have always attracted attention, even when they weren’t dressed to their best advantage.

But then, that’s what boobs do.

I’ve watched men, with whom I was walking, or drinking coffee, literally do a 180 degree headspin and snap-back at an oversized pair of hooters walking by. It never bothered me, in fact it was something of a relief that for once it wasn’t my pair that was magnetizing stares all around. I remember one time laughing hilariously, when it took a while for the men in question to realise that they’d just witnessed a pair of falsies on a very attractive transitional transgender (it may have been a crossdresser, I don’t know, but he was gorgeous and had a stunning pair of titties, with a pants-bulge that did everything but complement them).

Thing was, it never did anything for me. Feeling up the girls, I mean. Licking them. Kissing them. Nothing, nada, zip, zilch.

And then one hot and sweaty occasion, someone grasped a nipple between their thumb and forefinger, and squeezed — and I nearly hit the ceiling with ecstasy.

And the rest, as they say, is history. 😎

I guess I owe the Girls a lot. More than just their own blog post. Maybe I should gold-plate them, or make images of them in plaster of paris… what do you think? Suggestions and comments in the comments area, please.

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Antici….. pation

I see him today.

The time between meetings seems to drag and fly by alternately — depending on my mood, the quantity of work I have to do, and how the world immediately around me is spinning at any particular moment.

I try to update here with the sparkles of joy that emanate from me after we meet, but I am sometimes somewhat tardy. Know, however, that I leave his embrace only to walk on air. Sub-space has nothing on how I feel. There are not enough words of a sufficient calibre to describe it — and I speak as one to whom words are bread and meat, blood and air, sustenance and breath.

The excitement of the build-up begins to increase exponentially around noon. Four hours until… three hours until… Idly i flip through the pages on the site looking for something to catch my attention and refocus myself. I work listlessly, or on occasion frantically — determined to leave the rest of my life nehind me so that my whole being is focused on him, on he and I… on us.

From the moment the door closes, and it is just us in the room, I’m in a different place altogether. Despite my external, bouncy and excited demeanour, I am solemn and focused on the inside. It’s time for that thing, that ritual ceremony to happen.

I take this ritual very seriously. It heralds the start of every session, and for me, it’s like passing through a mental gateway. I remove my clothing, and then kneel before him, naked and shyly smiling. He fastens my collar around my neck, and holds me close to him, breathing in my smell as I breathe in his. When we are apart, he misses me too, a lot. I am constantly gratified and touched by how he never fails to demonstrate this to me, physically, vocally and mentally. He enquires how I am, and I know that he means now, this second, with my every sense engulfed in the very essence of him, knowing how different it is from the day-to-day, and delighting in my enjoyment of my submission.

And this is how it starts, and how this piece ends.

I quote the late great Jim Morrison:

“Ladies and gentlemen, the ceremony is about to begin.”

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Give me one

“Give me one,” he says to me.

I am lying spread across the bed, arms and legs secured akimbo, a warm muffler as a blindfold across my eyes. 

He is half-sitting and half-lying on and over me, stroking my skin, pinching me and flicking me, mini-slapping me with various pervertible slappy devices (beer mat, bookmark, bouncy rubber cat toy) to the sound of me yelping in pain and then sighing with ecstasy alternately.

Every so often he leans over me, his face so close to mine i can sense the warmth of him. I lift my head, hoping to catch his lips with mine in a warm and passionate kiss — and every so often he indulges me. But not always. This is, after all, his game. He makes the rules.

And how I love how he does so.

He pinches my clit, until i scream in ecstatic agony — and give him my orgasm, right into his palm.

*******************

“Give me one,” he demands from me.

I’m free-standing, the requirement is that i stand upright and allow him to toy with me as he pleases.

But of course. Could it ever be any other way? 😎

There are the basic assumptive roles into which we naturally and easily slide — catalyzed by our opening ceremony, which sets the scene very effectively for who and what we are when we are together. This is a role-play of sorts, but one that goes beyond any role-play of teacher and naughty schoolgirl, or of adult male returning to her home the young, naive and inexperienced babysitter.

His hand contracts, and his  fingers slide further inside me. I struggle to remain upright, eventually grasping onto the bookcase frame nearby as the alternative is to allow my knees to buckle. I look at him, my eyes pleading for clemency, and his acquiescent nod acknowledges the reality of the situation, and permits my frame-graspage.

I lose control, and come, screaming my ecstasy, and gushing what feels like gallons of come down my leg and onto the rug. And collapse into his warm embrace.

*********************************

I love how he demands that I *give* him my orgasm. I give him my submission, and I give him my love — and I do so with all my heart, love, trust, warmth and being. But give him my orgasm? What? Isn’t it supposed to be the other way around? That he gives me one?

Orgasms are usually perceived as something that we take from our partners. Furthermore, there is no requirement for love or even any feeling that transcends beyond base animal attraction and lust in order to achieve that particular brand of ecstasy. 

And yet, here he is, and he turns it on his head for me. “Give me your orgasm.” He sees it as a gift to him, and I find this fascinating, unusual and absolutely amazing.

To him, the fact that i experience the overwhelming sweep of bliss that streams through me like a light-sabre, then shudder as if undergoing (a very delightful form of)  electro-therapy and then (eventually) collapse against him, limp and sated, breathless and panting, is all evidence that I have given him a gift? So much the better.

***********************************

Later, he presents me with a healthy and highly inviting erection — a result of some dedicated and willing attention from my mouth and tongue — and demands that I clamber astride it. He didn’t have to demand. I’d have done it anyway. However, he is in control, therefore the instruction must come from him.

It’s how we like doing That Thing It Is That We Do.

Agreeably, I situate myself above him and slide him into me. He grasps my arms, dictating my every move, moving me up and down faster and faster, hitting my G-spot as he himself drifts off before my eyes onto a cloud of ecstatic joy. He looks into my eyes, and whispers to me.

“I love how your cunt feels around me.”

I nod, I smile my special smile at him, my eyes never leaving his.

“I’m going to take mine now.”

“I give it to you with all my heart, my mind, my soul and my cunt.”

“I love you, my kitten.”

“I love you, Don Gato.” 

He comes, his all-but-silent “Ohhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhh…!” echoing around the room, belying its near-silence.

I love being with him, I love fucking him, I love him fucking me, I love how he tells me how he loves my cunt and how it feels to be inside it, I love how he touches me when i sit at his feet, I love the way his skin feels on mine…

I will always give him whatever he wishes. Orgasms and otherwise.

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Sugasm 169 — Editor’s Choice!

The best of this week’s blogs by the bloggers who blog them. Highlighting the top 3 posts as chosen by Sugasm participants — and the Editor’s Choice which this week is “Belonging” — my piece about the connection of BDSM and love that I have to Purrrrvert. Thanks, Editor — we’re both very touched that you saw fit to choose this piece, as it is perhaps the most personal piece I’ve ever submitted to Sugasm.

Want in Sugasm #170? Submit a link to your best post of the week using this form. Participants, repost the link list within a week and you’re all set.

This Week’s Picks
Clothespin Communion
“Surrender to the sensation.”

Remembering the Pain
“And it really was that bad.”

Short And Sweet
“Why don’t you turn over”

Sugasm Editor
Fetish Fridays: Financial Submission

Editor’s Choice
Belonging

Thoughts on Sex and Relationships
Absence
Evey Can Haz?
The Ghost of Sex Toys Past (Part One of Three)
“Boy, Girl, or In-between?” Princess Frida’s Fabulous Talk, and My Thoughts
“Work” Confession #297

NSFW Pics, Videos & Audio
Busty beauty Jenny McClain
Flash Spanking Videos
Leighton Meester Sex Tape
Pearls
Thrashed on their bared buttocks
Waiting for Tonight

Sex Humor
Fat Sex and Why It’s Good

BDSM & Fetish
Don’t Have Mercy on Me, Baby
Formalities, and, on second thought, greetings
The Going Away Present
He gave them pain like balm, and they begged him for it
High School Bully Part 3
Home Alone?
Mollena Williams added to 100 Divas
A Night In Bondage
Under instruction
The war of the sexes

Sex Poetry
At the movies….

News, Reviews & Interviews
The Independent lists “the ten best sex toys.” I fly into a rage.
Take Me Out to the Sapphic Sex Romp
Vibratex Pandora
The Wily Old Crocodile: An Interview with Eosuchus

Sex Advice
Anal Sex for Beginners
New At Sex Is Magazine: Foods That Enhance Your Sex Drive
Q&A with Dr.Ruthie – Asking for Better Sex
Starting At The Bottom: An Intro to Anal Play, Part 2

Erotic Writing & Experiences
Amber gives me a blowjob..in person!
From Behind
Its Morning…(The Last Time)
Just fucking.
A Matter of Taste
May i feel said he
New Man at the Lesbos Palace
The Problem with Thongs
The Raise
Randy: the new big cock
Stranger Fuck & Plough
Whore, Adulteress, Sinner
You can leave your hat on

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Transatlantic telepathy

He’s gone away, on holiday.

Gone to learn new rope tricks, and then come home and try them all out on me.

Gone to buy me something very personal and special that we chose together before he left. (He plans things, none of the last-minute rush for him.)

Gone to rest and relax from all the crazy of late.

And I? I wish him the most wonderful, relaxing, enjoyable time away. I genuinely hope he and Sub1 have a great time.

He promised he would be in touch as soon as he landed, and he was, in his way. I already knew he was safe, i could feel it. The phone call confirmed it.

Right now, the warm and fuzzy around my heart means I know he’s having fun. This both  calms and delights me concurrently.

******************

I slept earlier, and an image of him straddling me, floated before my eyes.

“Again?” I’d asked him, as he secured my wrists to each side of the bed. “That’s the third time in as many hours that you’ve wanted to fuck me.”

He said nothing, merely sniggering in his cattish way, and smirking at me out of the corner of his eye.

“I’m not complaining,” I reassured him.

“I should hope not. Now, instead of all that talking, how about 25 words for me?”

“Holy shit. Now? Goddamn rotten, evil, mean feline.”

“Why, thank you, my dear.”

While considering the 25 words, I realised that he had upended the bottle of lube and was about to trickle it on me.

“No! It’s cold, it’ll be cold!” I squealed.

My protests counted for nothing, as he dribbled the lube over the girls (as he likes to refer to the expansive chest area with which I have been blessed). He then bent to kiss me, before starting to fuck the girls hard and fast.

His legs straddled me, squeezing me between his thighs. If ever there were an occasion where I felt owned, and restrained, contained and sublimated — this was it.

His cock glided smoothly between my breasts, hitting me on the chin every so often, as he reached forward to tug at my hair, never losing eye contact with me for a second.

It’s part of that natural connection we have — i can look in his eyes and read what he’s about to say, and I’ve not been wrong yet.

Suddenly he tensed. And came. All over my face and hair, on my lips, cheeks and eyelids.

And then bent to kiss me.

*******************

It was this image with which I awoke.

Rawrrrrrrr.

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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.

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Bare-Assed Cheek (1)

“What am I wearing?”

“Short pleated skirt, leaving nothing to the imagination, white blouse, fetchingly undone so that I can see your delightful cleavage, with lacy bra underneath — black, to enhance your true slutty nature. And a tie. It’s not your collar, but it will do for now.”

“And you, what are you wearing?”

“Cap and gown, of course. And holding a cane.”

“I hope I don’t get this wrong. Age play is an unopened book to me.

“Langsam, darling. Go with the flow. “

**************************

Today, I am a schoolgirl, and he is my professor. I am a good girl, always a good girl. I want to impress my professor and make him happy. And then, if I’m lucky, he’ll punish me by throwing me over the table and doing me until my eyes spin.

It’s bad, it’s taboo and it’s wrong. Which makes it doubly hot.

I’m a good girl but I crave punishment. O sweet contradiction.

**************************

He raps on the table at my suggestion that this might be his next move, making me jump, and bang my thigh on the corner of the desk.

“You should leave decisions of that nature to your superiors, young miss. And stop rubbing your thigh. What’s wrong with you?”

I remain mute. He whacks his cane on the tabletop. “I asked you a question!”

My eyes downcast, my knees and lower lip trembling, I mumble, trying desperately not to rub a modicum of comfort into my throbbing thigh muscle. “On the corner of the desk, you made me jump and I banged my thigh.”

“Speak up, girl, or you will not be punished at all.”

A pause, during which I remain still, holding back a sudden rush of unexpected tears.

He puts his face very close to mine. Lifting my eyes for a fleeting moment i catch a blue sparkle, and the unreleased tears subside.

“So, young miss? Was there anything you wanted to say?”

My eyes remain downcast. “I’m… sorry I only got an A-, sir.”

“And?”

“And that i dared to suggest that you decide something one way or another.”

He seems very slightly mollified, but glares down at me, trembling like a rain-drenched kitten.

“And how do you plan to mitigate these shortcomings?”

The warmth in his voice belies the stern tone. I am heartened, and incredibly aroused.

“I will do whatever i’m told, Sir.”

*******************************

I look down at my shoes, and shift from one foot to the other. My lips tremble — both the visible set, and the pair which are less so — despite myself. I wonder idly whether his uncanny sense of smell can pick up the scent of my arousal — or if, in fact, it already has.

“Stand near the corner of the desk, young lady. Right now!”

“Yes, Sir.”

“Closer, and facing it!”

“Yes, Sir.”

“That’s a very slutty length for a skirt, girl. Look, the corner of the desk even peeks beneath it.”

I pause. The skirt is short because that’s what he made me buy, for entirely his own pleasure. When we’re out in public, he loves to reach under the skirt and stroke me, sending us both into paroxysms of erotic frenzy while remaining poe-faced and seemingly innocent. Ordinarily I would call him on it, but for the first time, it feels inappropriate. This roleplay is all-encompassing and the flow is intense. Breaking character would be wrong, and possibly spoil the mood. I am suddenly and incredibly reminded of my time as a professional actor, and I smile to myself at the perverted and erotic similarities of roleplay to regular improv.

“It shrank in the wash, Sir. It’s not that i’m a dirty slut or anything… Sir.”

A stern glare in my direction, with the anticipatory sound of a cane thwacking the owner’s palm that sends my senses reeling into overdrive.

“Move closer to the desk, girl.”

“Sir, am I doing this right? The corner is pushing into me… right into me… it’s a little embarrassing.”

“Young lady, why are you mumbling? Speak eloquently, please… and describe in details what is that makes you blush.”

Silence.

“Now!”

“Yes, Sir. Sorry, Sir. It’s the desk corner, it’s pushing into me. Into the space between my thighs, Sir, and it’s — well, it’s difficult to stand still, Sir, although I promise I’m trying, Sir, I promise. The thing is…

“Oh, spit it out, girl!”

“Well, that’s something you’ve never said to me before, Sir.”

I realise what I’m saying about a nanosecond before the words leave my lips, but I just cannot stop myself. Although I mutter them, the silence in the room is so voluminous that they are as obvious as if I’d screamed them in perfect pitch down a well-tuned microphone.

Thwack! The cane hits the back inside thigh and I yelp in pain.

“Ow!”

“Watch your lip. And don’t drift from the point, girl. You were telling me why you were embarrassed. The mood I’m in, this is no time to be cheeky. Finish what you started!”

OK, that i had heard many times, but in  an entirely different context.

“Yes, Sir. Sorry Sir. What I was trying to say was that however hard I try to stand still, the fact that the corner of the desk is placed at clit height is having quite an effect on me.”

“Be specific!” he thunders, and suddenly the penny drops, and I remember who and where I am.

He wants my graphic, erotic descriptions. He wants me to make it abundantly clear to him the effect he is having on me, because this in turn intensifies and pinpoints the effect on him.

“I’m very aroused Sir. In fact, I’m wet, Sir. Soaking.”

Slowly, he steps toward me — agonizingly slowly, he eyes not leaving mine for a second. His hand stretches out towards me.

“Give them to me. Your panties. Give them to me.”

I remove my by-now sodden panties and hand them to him, watching as he sniffs them, hums in satisfaction, and then finally pockets them, and wonder somewhere in the back of my mind whether I’ll ever see them again.

“Very well, girl. Now I will be testing your anatomy skills. As I touch you, you will name the body part — official and proper name first, followed by any more colloquial terms that you’d like to share with me.”

As he sweeps a finger suggestively along my slit, I gulp worriedly and hope to all that is unholy that my memory does not fail me in my moment of need.

To be continued…

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Ceremony

According to your wish, I write for you, and no one else. These words are inspired by you, and dedicated to you.

“Welcome,” you say, although you always pronounce it “well-cum”.

You lean back and look at me, taking in what you see. Five foot seven inches in heels, blue jeans, snug black low-necked t-shirt, pink-streaked blonde, curvy.

“You’re wearing far too much clothing.”

I remove my heels, then my t-shirt, then my jeans.

You take my hand and draw me towards you. Encircle my waist and hold me close to you. Your warm breath softly caresses my ear.

“You’re still overdressed.”

“I’m overdressed? Me?” (In other words, I stand here before you in bra and panties, and you’re fully clothed!)

A sharp, stinging slap on my ass elicits a gasp of shocked pleasure.

“Yes. Fix it.”

I step out of my lacy black panties, and slower than i need to, i unhook and slide off my matching bra.

Your hands reach for me, holding each of my breasts in turn, before you grab my nipple and pull me closer toward you. I’m already wet, and desperate for you to feel it, but I know the way you think:

There’s no rush. Langsam. All in good time.

You hold out your wrist to me. I unbutton your cuffs, one by one.

I slide your shirt off you, and drape it carefully across the chair.

I kneel down to unlace and remove your shoes, and then your socks.

I unbuckle your belt.

I unhook and unzip your smart businesslike trousers. They fall to the floor with a jingle and a thump (how you move with all the gadgets and tzatzkes attached to them is a mystery to me).

I slide down to remove your underwear, until I’m resting on my knees, close enough to breathe on your skin, but taking no specific action until — unless — requested. (That would be topping from the — ahem — bottom.)

One of your hands on my face, the other on my shoulder. Your arms about me, stroking my back and my front. Our bodies pressed close together. You stroke my hair.

“My cunning linguist Pink Tabby. How are you?”

I feel like I belong to you, in this moment. I am no longer a cat who walks by herself. Symbolic gestures or pieces of leather are unnecessary, and hold no significant meaning for either of us. That which flows between us — that special way in which we commune, the almost telepathic mental connection, the constantly growing list of cannot-possibly-be-only-coincidences, the myriad likes and dislikes we share.

In this moment, it’s only you and I. No one else exists.

As if to seal the deal, you kiss me. I love the sweet way you always moisten your lips before moving in for the kill. I adore the soft touch of your mouth on mine. Being with you is like coming home.

You astounded me, when first we met, by assuring me that BDSM was not all about the fast, the hard, the rough, the extreme touch. That tenderness was a realistic expectation as much as a much-anticipated brutal flogging — that being aroused by either or both, in their specific circumstance, was not contradictory. In this kiss, you bring tenderness, and so much more.

And then you wind your fingers into my hair, and pull — intensifying my sensations to the point where my senses collide and I can feel the subspace, as though it were a chasm over which I were suspended.

The ceremony is over, but our time together is only just beginning.

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