Past. Present. Future.

About a year ago I picked up the phone. As is usual with me, I'm sketchy on the details. I might, in fact, have picked up the email instead.

But about a year ago I got back in touch.

"I want to come back. Can I come back?"

"You never really left."

"I can't make any promises but...can I just come back?"

"Of course. I've been waiting for you."

And he had.

No one has ever loved me with such quiet determination and steadfastness. No one has ever been so certain about me, about how we are together. No one has ever owned me with the confidence required to own me and let me go, knowing that his ownership remained intact.

Happy New Year, Master.

Thank you for letting me come back.

If it's all right with you, I'll stay.

Holiday Torture

Forget using the menorah candles for hot wax play.

Forget using tree ornaments for nipple torture.

Forget beating me senseless with evergreen branches.

If he really wants to torture me this year, he can just put me in a room with any local radio station that's switched from its regular format to "All Christmas Music, All the Time," lock the door, and throw away the key.

But then, I do hear that it is possible to take this BDSM thing too far.

Wetter than Wet

We had talked about it a lot. A whole lot.

He'd done it before. I hadn't. But I really wanted to. I was pretty sure I really wanted to, anyway.

So when he stood up and took me by the wrist, I followed him eagerly, the way that I always do when he takes me by the wrist.

And we went into the bathroom.

I think we were both nervous. Me, because I'd never done it before. Him, because, well, it's a performance moment isn't it?

He asked me, with that quietly focused but rough edge to his voice that I always hear when he's at his most dominant, how I'd envisioned this happening.

I said that I wanted to kneel, so I could watch.

He had me turn first...he said that it was so we could be sure we liked it before I watched, but I think it may also have been to ease me into it...and so he could look at my ass. And so I turned and knelt and waited.

I think he made me ask him for it. I can't quite remember.

But I do remember the feeling. Hot. Wet. Shockingly intimate. His piss splashing on my skin.

And I remember how eagerly I turned when he told me I could, how quickly I got up on my knees and arched my back, presenting my breasts for his piss. I remember watching him get half hard.

We both remember how eagerly I opened my mouth, and how wide.

I want it again. And again.

It rockets me down. Which is right where I want to be.

What Happens, III

Later, as he's stretched out on the bed looking like the hero from a very louche erotic romance, all tanned skin and sleepy eyes, and runner's muscles, I cuddle up and ask him if I can go put on something pretty for him.

He says yes. So I do. Sliding into the all but transparent white lace. Tying my hair into pony tails with little white bows, fingers shaking.

Suddenly I'm shy.

How can I possibly be shy? I've just sucked his cock. He's just ass raped me. I've just come so hard and so loud that there's no way everyone at the entire hotel has any doubt about what's going on.

And I'm shy?

Whatever, trixie. Go with it.

I edge out of the bathroom, quiet, shy....and step over to the edge of the bed.

Until the day I die I will never forget how he looked at me, then. Until the day I die I will never find the words to describe it, either.

"Can I come into bed with you?"

And whose voice is this? This little whispery babygirl voice? Must be me but I scarcely recognize myself. Can white lace and some ponytails make such a difference?

He tells me I can come in.

What Happens, II

Later, as I knelt on all fours on the bed, in front of the open window, with his unlubed cock forcing its way into my ass, I did some screaming. And some yelling. And some apologizing.

(Well, he had to work so hard to get his cock in there that it seemed like an apology was in order. Sue me. I'm polite.)

Anyway, as he forced his cock in all the way and started, gradually to fuck me harder, and faster, ordering me to push back against him like the whore that I am, as my fingers clutched the sheets to help me get the necessary traction, he leaned down and growled:

"This is going to make a great post for the blog, whore...you getting ass raped in the middle of the afternoon, pushing back onto my cock and begging for it."

To the best of my recollection, I came like a freight train and said:

"Fuck the blog."

What Happens, I

We drive for an hour, talking idly, touching hands, thighs, but doing nothing that would interfere with his driving. I read him a bit of a book I've been reading. He tells me what he's been doing with the day before coming to get me.

We both keep smiling, looking sideways at each other. Laughing because the damn car ride is so long and all we want to do is *get* there.

It has never taken anyone so little time to check in to a hotel.

And then we're standing, kissing, feeding on each other...the taste the scent...and I know I'm whispering his name, between kisses, and whimpering "Daddy."

And somehow my tanktop is pushed down past my waist. And somehow his belt is unbuckled and my fingers are managing to undo the damn buttons on his pants.

"Get down there. Suck my cock."

And my world is in order again.

Mystery

I like not knowing what's going to happen.

(Oh, insert all the usual stuff here about negotiated limits, safety, trust, and so on. Can we just stipulate that Al and I have all that under control? Okay. Thanks)

I like not knowing what's going to happen.

I like the fact that I could have plans for an upcoming encounter...(and I do...I have plans that in this case involve an all but transparent white lacy babydoll and g-string, ponytails tied with white ribbons, and a pleading voice asking "Daddy, can I come into bed with you?")...but all my plans could be overturned in an instant by whatever he's planning.

And I love that.

Maybe I'm carrying those bits of white lace and ribbon, and already working out how to excuse myself for a few minutes to go get dressed/undressed for him, and already practicing my most winsome phrasing. And at the same time he's walking next to me, thinking hard, the way he does, and the next thing I know I'm *bang* up against a wall, hard, and he's getting ready to hurt me. And it's so good I can't breathe, even before he puts his hand to my throat. And it's so good that I cannot possibly imagine caring about any plans I might have had for other things I thought I wanted.

Because how could I want anything other than what happens?

Whatever happens, I'll let you know.