Tidbit Tuesday

• Last night we had WDS, as opposed to WMS. WDS stands for Wild Doggie Sex (don’t call PETA, no real animals are ever involved in our sex life). The difference between Wild Doggie Sex and Wild Monkey Sex is 1) postioning. The obvious WDS position is, well, doggie style. Monkey Sex position involves alternating gymnastic-type positions that leave you with tangled limbs. And 2) WDS is mostly silent, with low, throaty growls. WMS involves hooting and hollering.

  /animal sex lessons

  I’d put on this short silky number before we got into bed because Master really has a thing for satin and silk fabrics. I planned on seducing him by rubbing my silky self up and down his body, with lots of licking and kissing and suckling. So, trying to keep that seductive tigeress look on my face I swung myself on top of him.

  And prompty bonked my head on the metal bars of the headboard. Not just a little bonk, but a big one that reverberated throughout the hollow metal tubes. I *was* going to pretend it didn’t happen because that totally doesn’t lend itself to the seductive tigress look I was going for- but it really hurt. It was one of those kind of bonks that makes your eyes water and requires rubbing to soothe the sting.

  Naturally, Master cracked the fuck up. “Your middle name isn’t Grace, is it?! Bwahahahahaha!”

  Fucker.

  When he could breathe again, he rubbed the sting away and kissed my owie.

  And that was kind of sexy. So I was all inspired again to be the seductive tigress and I went ahead with my plan to rub my silky self all over him.

  I really really REALLY enjoy making his eyes roll up into his head. It’s powerful.

  He happily returned the favor. By the end of the WDS, I was on another planet. The Planet of Ecstasy. Lovely place, that.

  And then we spooned, with our legs all entangled and his arm thrown heavily across my body. Before drifting off to sleep, he breathed into my ear, one word: “Mine.”

  I smiled into the darkness and settled deeper under the binding feel of his embrace. I replied with one word: “Yours.”

• And speaking of being his, I had an… “episode”… about two weeks ago where I decided that I most definitely was not going to be his and I snuck off to erase the scarred words that label my body.

  I scratched and scratched and scratched. There was a lot of blood, zero pain, zero tears, zero hysteria. I was numb, lost down some rabbit hole of despair and desperation.

  Desperate to reclaim my self.

  There was a lot more going on than just that, but the details of it are not necessary and I want to focus on this one thing.

  Afterward, instead of making me feel better, I felt worse. Lost. Adrift. Panicked. Unidentified.

  When it was all done and said and he observed the damage; ‘It’s still there’ was all he said, confident that his “work” could not so easily be removed.

  As the tissue has healed-and as I have healed- the words are reappearing. Each letter standing out, raised and perfectly legible, amidst the dull pink of healing skin.

  Seeing that permanence soothes me to my soul. I can’t erase what he’s scarred into my skin anymore than I can erase what he’s scarred into my very being.

  Someday, I’ll stop trying. I know it, he knows it. Last ditch efforts to claw my way out. I don’t know why. I don’t know that it matters why. Maybe all that matters is that even when I claw my way to the top, I turn around and jump right back in.

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