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Posts Tagged ‘Purrrrvert’

Time spent apart only increases the intensity when we re-connect.

On the rare occasions that the time between our special times together gapes wider than usual, the joy of re-connection is virtually tangible. Like two randy teenagers, our skin is always in contact; his body all over my body, entwined and intertwined, wound around each other like softly tangled strands of suede leather.

The passion rises, skin on skin, leather on skin, moulded kitchen plastic on skin, hair tugged, wrists and ankles cuffed, eyes covered, and then revealed — I reach my apex again, and again, and again. My body writhes and gushes, my inner child screams a release, and I soak everything within a four foot radius, then collapse in a heap.

The afterglow — the panting regrouping of our embrace that is part-cuddle, part-rest, and all about physically being as close together as we possibly can be — is one of my favourite rituals.

Pulling me up from cuddle-position, he peruses me from his lazy and relaxed stance, yanking my head back by my hair every so often to look at my eyes. Each time he smiles and says the same thing.

“That look, that wonderful look in your eyes. I love that look. Are you here, my sexy tabby? Or should I leave a message?”

Then he smiles that killer twinkly blue-eyed smile, and oh-so-gently kisses the top of my forehead, or the tip of my nose — with a gentle grace that belies his evil, flower-weilding nature.

“My gorgeous little perverted kitten.”

I raise my eyes to his, knowing that the look in them says much, much more than that of which I am currently capable. Speechless as I am, I can only be thankful that my eyes do the talking for me, and convey how I feel.

Diana Krall employs a more verbal method of communication, but she gets it. She understands. She knows.

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Is there anything better than lying in bed, naked, spent, cuddled up to the biggest, baddest, rottenest feline in the yard, as he breathes softly into your neck and strokes your hair, and kisses teeny tiny butterfly kisses along your shoulder and up the side of your neck?

What’s that you say? No?

Well, there is, but the only differentiating factor is when you are doing this listening to the most fabulous music, that just happens to be one of the basic tenets of your connection — the common denominator that you discovered when you were first getting to know each other.

That is pure heaven.

So today, on the worldwide designated day for showing love and affection — which I confess I have no real need of because I show and am shown the depth of love and affection on a constant basis (and sorry if I sound like I’m bragging, I’m not, I’m just so happy with Purrrrvert) — I share with you the latter part of our last session.

No words are needed, since none were spoken, other than “Oh my god, I LOVE  this song!”

And “I love you so much.”

And “Purrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrr.”

Happy Valentine’s Day, angel. No massacres, only love.

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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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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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UPDATE: Fleshbotted by the lovely AAG… happy holidays to you too, lovey.

The wail that bursts forth from me at the point of complete surrender is almost primordial in its nature.

Orgasm was not always a noisy experience for me. Borne of a combination of immaturity, and having my sexual learning curve experienced under mostly dormitory conditions, silence was a skill I learned to equate with reaching my orgasmic apex.

Not any more.

It used to be all about pleasure. My pleasure. Regardless of how much I enjoyed pleasuring a guy — and I really do take great pride in making someone else happy — my orgasm was about me achieving those pinnacles of wailing ecstasy.

This was before I discovered my G-spot, before I knew of female ejaculation, and loooooong before I knew what it was like to experience such a thing — and even longer before I knew what BDSM really was.

My first orgasm — my first real, hit-that-spot, “holy FUCK what was that?” moment, was with a boy from the States who I met on kibbutz. Until then, masturbation had been a comfort thing for me. This guy hit the spot, and had me shuddering silently into his shoulder, amazed that what had up until now been a passable way to spend a quiet afternoon could have such incredibly cataclysmic results.

In a good way.

But my reaction, while real, and quite noticeable to said boy, was silent. Like I said, dormitory life had a strong influence on the ease with which I allowed myself to express myself vocally. Or lack thereof.

Fast forward to my first fisting. Also my first ejaculation — well, the first that emanated from within me, as opposed to being sprayed in me, up me or over me. My verbal expression was less muted, but still more of an occasional grunt or cry.

Fast forward (again) to today.

Orgasms — despite the ritual fetish of denial that accompanies them — are abundant, lavish and — well, put it this way. there’s not a dry eye in the house. Or a dry anything, come to that.

But the vocal appreciation of same is on a whole new level.

The wails that burst forth from me come from a place that could be described by archeologists as newly discovered. Hitherto I had been completely unaware of the depth of emotion within me that was accessible.

The sounds I make now are an abandonment of consciousness, a wail directly from my soul. They seem to last forever, although of course they don’t — but an untold and unfathomable length of wailed joyous expression goes by before i am silent again, save huge, shuddering gasps of air that reinflate my lungs.

It’s a whole new level of ecstasy. A new experience on every level. I think it’s as much about with whom I experience this pleasure as the nature of the experience itself. The pleasure that the achievment of my orgasm gives the the one who permits me, encourages me and draws it forth from me, is palpable, fundamental and almost tangible in its nature.

Which makes the whole experience a hundred times better.

A thousand, even.

🙂

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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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Wordless, self-gagged

When I do not have the words, I look for those of someone else to assist me.

Below is a song by a group I’ve never heard of. I don’t even know the melody. On a freebasing search across the internet, I stumbled across it somehow, and it resonated with me, very deeply.

In a way, it seemed to explain how you ease my soul. How you hear me, and enfold me in your warm embrace and hold me close, soothing the tears, calming the shudders, reassuring me, and taking care of me better than I can myself — at the moment.

I am blocked, I cannot write. Everything I put down seems trite and unworthy, and I hate it and immediately delete it. Is it likely that this is the reason for my current stormy frame of mind? Highly likely.

From within my head, the outlook is horribly fogged and viscous. Mentally, i wipe the windscreen from the inside, leaving smeared imprints of my hand — only for the glass to cloud over almost instantaneously.

When I hurt, you help me heal. You catch my tears. You gently absorb the sadness that overwhelms me.

And each time I catch my breath anew at how generous and loving you are. How much you care. How you cushion me in warmth and kindness.

You wrap me in your soul, and I nestle there, hiding from the universe until I can gather myself and face them again.

I love you. Do you know how much?

long day fall
long day beneath an angry sky;
we talk about the life we share.
I pour myself into you,
you drain the day’s wild energy.

falling, falling, falling into you.
falling, falling, falling into you.
falling, falling, falling into you.
I fall…

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