Fragments of a Love Letter

I've been struggling in writing this post for awhile, but I figured I should get my shit together after Lily posted her version of the events that precipitated the occurrences I wanted to document. Or something.

Anyway, it's a state of the relationship post!

***

Nick grabbed me and pushed me against the kitchen wall, his hand squeezing firmly around my throat.

“I have not been severe enough with you this week,” he said, “Just wait until we get back here tonight.”

He removed his hand from my throat and slammed his closed fist against my chest to punctuate his statement.

My knees went weak and my pussy throbbed. Suddenly, the movie that we were going to seemed significantly less interesting.

I looked up at him with big puppy dog eyes full of love and wanting and submission.


In case it wasn’t made clear from Nick’s story, which was written this summer, our relationship has something of a d/s element to it.

It wasn’t something that we really discussed, but I had never withheld information about my sexual preferences. I wanted him too much to pretend that group sex, non-monogamy, and kink weren’t important aspects of my sexuality. He wasn’t entirely inexperienced in those areas, and more importantly, both of us were ready and willing to experiment, to do what felt good without a whole lot of discussion.


I was on my stomach, my knees pulled up underneath me, my face pushed down on the bed. Nick was fucking me hard.

“You know what I like best about fucking you like this?” He asked, rhetorically. “I like that I can pretend that you are anyone. That I am fucking any girl I want to.”


We were cruising along, quite happily, with a little bit of pain, a little bit of bondage, a little bit of domination and submission, and a whole lot of fucking. That is, until (You knew there was going to be an “until,” didn’t you?) Nick saw me getting caned.

When he came back into the darkened bedroom, I was alone, still coming down from the endorphin rush, still experiencing the euphoria of such a vulnerable place.

“I can’t deal with this; I’m going for a walk,” he told me.

He had tears in his eyes, and I held his gaze as tears filled mine.

When he came back, a couple of hours later, I was sleeping and he curled up in bed next to me.


“Eh, I’m done with that hole now,” Nick said as he pulled his cock from my pussy.

He stood up and walked over to the dresser on my side of the bed. Opening the top drawer, he rooted around and produced a riding crop. Returning to me, he smacked the crop down on my right ass cheek, the distinct, crisp sound, mingled in the air with the faint scent of leather.

After administering several sharp smacks, to the right side of my body only, he grew tired of this activity as well.

Repositioning himself so that he was kneeling in front of me, he shoved his cock into my mouth. As he fucked my face, I could smell my pussy on him and faintly taste the blood of my recently begun period.

Following his orgasm, I was sent back to my homework, my satisfaction put on hold until I was finished.


Following the caning “incident” Nick and I spent a lot of time talking. As he sorted through his feelings he went from being disgusted at this totally “unhealthy” action to admitting that seeing me get caned had opened up a world of “dark” desires that he had long been trying to suppress.

While Nick and I sorted out our relationship, Jefferson and I were also in close contact as he became my sounding board for the whole thing.

Jefferson knows me as a masochist, but as he told me during one of our discussions, “not particularly submissive.” Jefferson, however, had noticed the d/s element in the stories that I told him about my relationship with Nick.

It was true, in fact, that I’d staked much of my sexual identity on being a bottom or a masochist, but I was resolutely NOT a submissive. For me “submissive” conjured up images of women that got off on cleaning bathtubs in nothing but a collar, slave contracts, and incorrect capitalization, even as I knew that that wasn’t all there was to it.


“Shut up. I don’t want to hear another sound from you,” Nick commanded as he held my legs back in order to fuck me deeper.

I whimpered and was rewarded with a sharp smack across the face.

“I told you to shut the fuck up,” he growled.

My eyes grew wide, and I tried to suppress the moans that resulted from having Nick’s cock so deeply inside of me.

Hoping that I would be rewarded with another slap, I quickly stopped trying so hard to be quiet. Unfortunately, Nick caught on, and instead clamped his hand over my mouth and kept fucking me, sans face slaps.


The realization that I was submissive to Nick and that I was getting off on it, fairly rocked me. I had spent enough time grappling with “unconventional” aspects of my sexuality in the past, so it wasn’t so much the fact that Nick was dominant to my submissive, but rather that our relationship had this whole other element to it that I hadn’t been fully conscious of.

During our relationship talks, I mentioned this to Nick. His grown-up hippie, Buddhist self had been uncomfortable with the violence and the seeming lack of equality in our sexual relationship. I assured him that this was new territory for me too, but that we weren’t crossing any boundaries that I didn’t want to cross.

But still, it was kind of unsettling to be embracing a part of my identity that I had been so insistent that I didn’t have. It didn’t help that my sex life was beginning to involve elements of the BDSM scene that had outright turned me off and that I had considered kind of cheesy.


Nick held me close as I worked my clit. His lips were close to my ear as he spun a tale to aid me in my masturbation.

“When Daddy and his friend are done with you you’re going to have to go sleep on the futon. We won’t need you anymore and we’re not going to have you taking up room in the bed. You’re just a piece of trash.”

I was helplessly, hopelessly turned on as I rubbed my clit faster and my breathing grew shallow.

“Maybe if you beg, though. Maybe we’ll let you come back to bed. Of course, you’ll have to crawl across the floor on your hands and knees. Little sluts like you are meant to be on the floor.”

My brain felt like it was exploding when I came, shaking and shuddering.


Recently I realized why I had been so resistant to identify myself as a submissive, and why I get off so hard on being submissive to Nick. The high-powered executive, the woman that has it all together, the alpha female that loves to be dominated in bed is a ubiquitous figure in d/s land; she is always so in control that being able to relinquish control in certain settings is a pleasure. But for me, well, I am so far from being in control, and while it may come as a surprise to some, I am really kind of shy and unsure of myself. When I am experiencing a depressive period I have serious social anxieties. Much of my life is spent making a serious effort to be assertive. Submitting to Nick is a relief. I don’t have to worry about being treated like a doormat or not standing up for myself. Instead I get to be the good little girl seeking approval; I get to be afraid of a disapproving authority figure. I don’t have to fight these natural reflexes, and because it is in a safe place, with someone that I know loves me, I know that these power imbalances won’t be carried further, into other parts of our relationship.


When I looked down I could see the drops of girl cum as they hit the blue yoga mat that Nick had so thoughtfully spread over the hardwood floor. Splat! Splat! My legs were wide apart, held in place by a spreader bar, leaving the juices an unobstructed path between my cunt and the floor.

Nick was crouched in front of me, one hand reaching around to work the purple dildo that was in my ass. His other hand held my new Laya Spot vibrator against my clit. As my body tensed, I strained against the ropes holding my arms above my head.

“Do. Not. Come,” Nick commanded. “I don’t care what you have to do, but you are not allowed to come.”

I whimpered and I pulled on the restraints, but I did not orgasm.