So, last night was an undeniably hot night in the house on the hill, and we were both sweaty and blushed. He did all the right things, but somehow, I wasn’t getting anywhere. He slapped and choked me, caressed and kissed me, but it wasn’t enough. When has it ever not been enough? Then I offered my plump lower lip to his teeth.
What really happened after that wasn’t much in the terms of the B!D!S!M!, except of course that we both came. My escapades are infitesimal in constrast to those of others. But I discovered it was huge for us.
Afterwards I laid there with Wonderboy’s alluring scent, his body hairs on my fingertips, his mouth close to mine. My lower lip was still kind of numb and burning.
He was caressing me and the happy I’ve just come face turned into an perplexed one. I asked him if there was someting wrong. He said no, there isn’t. I didn’t believe but he wouldn’t say more so we went to take a shower together.
After some time he came to hug me as I was reading on the bed. He climbed on my back and kissed me.
W: I’m just afraid that it won’t be enough. Sometimes I just want to kiss you and caress you and make love to you.
Me: Hey, it’s okay. I want it too! The loving and caring and touching and kissing. Ofcourse I want it!
But I felt something stir in my stomach. (No matter what the poets say, feelings stir in the stomach, not the heart.) While I was shifting my fingers through his hair I felt it.
I shouldn’t be asking him to do these things in the first place. It’s too much. How can I play with him if he doesn’t even want to bind me and make a special place for me and just me, if his questioning all the moves while making them? If his not into it?
But don’t you like the things you do to me? I asked, somewhat worried but still looking for a big, smiling yes.
I like finding things that you like, he answered. He kissed me passionately, or pacifyingly, but I couldn’t really answer to that. And that was that.
But guess what? It wasn’t. Because now I am here, sipping my coffee, tracing our steps back, back a year or so when we first started to talk about it. And I’m thinking that I was all in the minute he said that he might like that sort of thing. I was, Gee, we could try, it sounds kinda intriguing and hot. We didn’t even have names for it – like submissing or dominating. We hardly knew what was powerplay, impact play, breath play, bondage or discipline. But we were already doing some of it. And started to explore a lot more. We have done so much since then and I’ve come so far strugling with my past and the self-doubt generated by my feminist stands.
But it boils down to this: all this time I thought he was doing what turned him on. Was he just trying to find a connection to me the whole time? Was he, really, indulging my (perceived) desires and not his own? And now that I really have gotten in to it, read about BDSM and other people’s experiences and finally got the nerve to ask things I think I want. He gets afraid. The coffee gets cold. Sun is overrun by armies of clouds.
Should we be past the hurt by now?