It was an unusual weekend in that schedules worked out that Artist and I spent two consecutive nights together, one in my house and one in his. I wasn't surprised that Thursday was exceptional, as the... adrenaline relief? from my overactive imagination was totally a thing - so the usual dinner and Half Naked Cinema happened (most evenings he's at my house we go watch TV in bed for a while after my kid goes to bed, in an effort to not be too loud for my house, but the problem / glorious thing about that is that it often gets terribly hard to focus on the tv show at hand...) but the actual *connection* to the sex was amazing. I am actually working on a bit of FetLife erotica based on it, as it was a really fun example of how quote unquote "vanilla" sex can be everything but vanilla, mentally. And that would have been enough... except I was already supposed to go to his house the next night and bring toys, so I spent the day wearing my collar (in bracelet mode) and barely able to do anything but anticipate...
The tension between wanting to write about things so I will remember them and wanting to keep some things just to myself is interesting, sometimes, especially when it comes to kink. I mean, for one, I feel like I keep saying "this was the best ever" and even I roll my eyes at that; and yet there's truth there... truth in that the more we do this the deeper it gets, the farther I submit, the more pain I can take and turn into ecstasy, the more he knows how to... and this is going to sound utterly fucking woo, and yet I will swear on everything anyone holds holy that it is real... play with the energy between us to put me exactly where he wants me to be. And it's a side of him that I know that only I know... the funny thing is that since I've started going over to his house more I end up spending more time with ArtistSpouse and it's both awkward and delicious that they (ArtistSpouse) don't really see the energy between Artist and I, and probably would be surprised at how it plays out. But then I'm utterly sure that I'm the only one that sees that side of him, and anyone else would almost be surprised if they *did* see it. (Subtle dominance is totally a thing...)
I want to hold these moments to myself, because I know no one else would understand no matter how I write of them... and yet I also want to scream them from the rooftops because they're such peak moments of my existence. Maybe it's that I don't know how to believe they were real, they felt too outside the normal flow of the universe, outside the realm of possibility of relationship for me to quite process myself... but the bruise on my ass and the sheer languor I was left in on Saturday say that that happened. And how to reconcile the hand on my throat stealing the breath from my lungs and the sheer sweetness of the kiss on my brow? I said he was caramel - sugar that will burn at the touch - and it's still true...
The tension between wanting to write about things so I will remember them and wanting to keep some things just to myself is interesting, sometimes, especially when it comes to kink. I mean, for one, I feel like I keep saying "this was the best ever" and even I roll my eyes at that; and yet there's truth there... truth in that the more we do this the deeper it gets, the farther I submit, the more pain I can take and turn into ecstasy, the more he knows how to... and this is going to sound utterly fucking woo, and yet I will swear on everything anyone holds holy that it is real... play with the energy between us to put me exactly where he wants me to be. And it's a side of him that I know that only I know... the funny thing is that since I've started going over to his house more I end up spending more time with ArtistSpouse and it's both awkward and delicious that they (ArtistSpouse) don't really see the energy between Artist and I, and probably would be surprised at how it plays out. But then I'm utterly sure that I'm the only one that sees that side of him, and anyone else would almost be surprised if they *did* see it. (Subtle dominance is totally a thing...)
I want to hold these moments to myself, because I know no one else would understand no matter how I write of them... and yet I also want to scream them from the rooftops because they're such peak moments of my existence. Maybe it's that I don't know how to believe they were real, they felt too outside the normal flow of the universe, outside the realm of possibility of relationship for me to quite process myself... but the bruise on my ass and the sheer languor I was left in on Saturday say that that happened. And how to reconcile the hand on my throat stealing the breath from my lungs and the sheer sweetness of the kiss on my brow? I said he was caramel - sugar that will burn at the touch - and it's still true...
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