His...

He moved decisively along the path toward reasserting some control of things last night, and reassured me a good bit in the process.

It has been difficult for Him, I think, to balance guarding my well-being with the desire we both share for the more physical relating that is so integrally woven through our M/s dynamic. Without it, we maintain the routines, the courtesies, the daily patterns, but the fire burns down to mere coals and we begin to shiver. I know He has avoided doing the things with me that would, in some ways bring us small pleasures, but then also increase the torment of the waiting for release to full sexual functioning again. Too, we have been cautious about spanking and paddling and any sort of heavy play, as we have waited for me to heal. So, we have lived more like friends than lovers. That reality has, to a degree, fed my growing fear that my sexual functioning and attractiveness was removed along with the "parts" in the surgery. While I've been quiet about that worry, the noise in my head has risen significantly in the last days...

Last night, He decided that enough was enough. Perhaps, with the eyes that seem to see what only Masters see, He knew the truth I'd been keeping in my heart. From the moment He arrived home from work, He badgered me about needing a spanking. I was wordless in the face of that "accusation." The need and my fear have been battling in my head for days now, and the light bits of play that we've managed have only fed the fire. I have known that, sooner or later, there was going to need to be the actual date with real paddles and something more akin to a "real" spanking that actually challenged me to stay put...

Eventually, the evening ran its course: dinner and dishes and all the various "stuff." We arrived, finally at the moment when it was time to decide: ready or not? I could think of no real reason not to try except for my fears, and those were not getting better with the passing days. I knew He'd hold me and care for me and watch my every response. He knows I never WANT those damn paddles. Its a dance we've done a thousand times. I only asked for a pillow to hold tightly to my still sort of tender middle. Granted, of course.

And it began. With the very lightest of the paddle arsenal. After the obligatory kissing of the hated paddle and the "please paddle me, Sir" request which is our custom.

It did not take long for the strokes to elicit all the pent up words and tears and fears and demons. Rushing forth in a torrent -- anger and frustration and despair. My pain and loss and grief and lack of belief in my remaining womanhood -- my fear at losing my place with Him with "us" now that there feels so little left of "me." I poured out my utter darkness, and sobbed that I just wanted to be allowed to die, to not have to do this anymore, not like this...

He heard it all. Gathered me up. Held me close and rocked me and stroked me and mopped the tears and snot. Crooned and soothed and sung low nonsense syllables of reassurance into my darkness until the storm subsided. Made it clear, as He grasped my hair and held my face to His that I was all woman, His woman, purely woman. Made me listen to the words until the calm rhythms penetrated the panic.

Finally, gradually, I somehow rolled back onto my pillow. He asked, "what are you doing back in position?"

I replied, "Because I'm supposed to."

"Why are you supposed to?" He asked me.

"Because I'm yours."

"Always and all ways?" He queried.

"Always and all ways." I responded.

I think it was at this point that He gave me a choice of finishing with the paddle or switching to the rubber whip. I'm not sure. I know that whenever that choice came up, I struggled with the decision. I must have ultimately chosen the whip rather than more of the paddle. I remember that He used the whip on me, starting lightly but moving to some fair intensity.

Then as He finished, as I was lying there face down, in my head, feeling sorry for myself that there was only pain and nothing good to feel from all of that, He began stroking my back and my ass and my legs. It isn't something that He is prone to do after a session. I was entranced and simply floated away on the sensation. I was drinking it in like one who has been too long in the desert.

Suddenly, unexpectedly, His hand was between my legs, rubbing my labia. He had me clamped tight to His chest and I was pulled into His embrace while my hungry body responded to His insistent fingers. Unable to move or think about it much, I simply went with the sensations He was evoking and rode His strong hands to a wavy sort of flowing orgasm that left me gasping, amazed and wondering, in His arms.

He gave me a bit of a pep talk about that being just the beginning, about how things would get better and better -- all whispered into my fuzzy, addled brain. He rolled me over and paddled me just a bit more, and sent me off to sleep: the first night I've slept well since the CPAP arrived on the scene.

I did dream: I was riding somewhere in some sort of bus like vehicle. I was in the back in a space that was like the back end of a station wagon. The space was padded and cushioned and I had staked it out as mine -- comfy and cozy and suitable for sleeping and resting. Suddenly, some old, white-haired, wizened old lady came crawling over the bench ahead of my space and tried to crawl in with me. I fought like the very devil, kicking and punching and biting and scratching and clawing to keep that old lady out of my space. Finally she just evaporated into thin air, and I was able to settle down and enjoy the ride in comfort and peace.

Do you suppose that my old lady on the bus is the vision I've had of myself these last days and weeks? If so, last night's session went a very good long way to helping run her off...

Thank you, Sir.

swan