The hardest thing about coming home is falling back into routine. i'm not talking about the routine of being His, but there is a certain pattern that's established for the mundane things, and finding the easy rhythm of that is often difficult for me. It becomes especially difficult for me when the pattern continues to elude me or things fly into the plan and gum up the works.
So it goes though, and i almost always find myself exhausted upon walking in the door of the home i share with my Master. As i attempt to return to the normal schedule of the household, invariably things will come up and change how i expected to deal with the attempt to return to the routine. When they do, i open my mouth and snip without thinking.
This particular trip was somewhat more problematic, as we had been absent from our home for five days, leaving both of us feeling edgy and desperately needing to play (i'm going to say, especially me, but that might not be true), and both of us had less than necessary sleep under our belts. Being good was a bit of a stretch for me - i was full of snipping and clipped statements, agitating my poor Dark One more than He deserved.
After allowing almost 24 hours to fall back into the routine, we did attack the need for play. Well...He attacked it and i succumbed to the attack. He knew i needed to be reminded of what i am (snipping smart-ass-masochist as a slave), and needed to be reminded that we've moved beyond the stages where i am allowed excuses, limits and "i don't knows". Additionally, He fully intended to leave marks on me that lasted longer than the usual period of time (a sad few hours, usually a maximum of twelve).
And about marks...i love them. i really do, but while my (very pale) flesh pinks nicely, or shows little welts immediately following our activities, the signs of play fade rapidly. i am frequently jealous of women who show the marks of their play long after the session has ended. So, i asked Master to push me beyond and make sure that there were marks from some play sessions.
Regardless of my request, He ravaged me. My body begged for a deep breath, cinched beneath leather straps, and my throat fought the pressure of the leather posture collar and my favorite ball gag. i wanted to claw at the sheets as He ripped a clothespin zipper off, beat the insides of my tender thighs and even the soles of my feet with the damnable white plastic spoon. (i swear, i have a hate, love, hate relationship with that thing. It's extraordinarily hard for me to deal with, yet it does leave interesting marks and and is quite painful...hence the hate-love-hate.) His slave was helpless under His hands, and adored the sensations her Master offered to her.
Yes, i did enjoy the pain, the ache...all of it - deeply, i fell away to a place where there is no thought, just the sensation. It is the place where i forget that i have to beg, the place where i struggle to remember the words that He has given me to offer him my orgasms for His pleasure... It is the place where i want to go, where i no longer worry about being "good enough" and where i am safely wrapped in His cruelty (and love, too).
And, the rewards of Master's efforts showed themselves quite nicely as soon as i was able to muster up the courage to stand. For once, there are lovely purple streaks in the skin of my breasts, and even my thighs carry pretty pink welts and faint bruises well after the play session. i was marked by Master's sadism, carried away in a wash of pain, and the recovery has been quite fascinating to me...
i don't often experience deep sub-drop or require oodles of after care, but this session left me (beyond) weeping, (exceptionally) quivery and (very, very) definitely in need of a gentle hand to keep me steady as i moved back into the requirements of life. Even now, if He brushed those bruises or welts, i'd be a puddle at His feet...but He's already said He intends a different focus for this evening...