I came here (today of all days) to do just that.
But then I started reading and it all came back, so fresh and alive.
The last time I was alive.
Hot damn, it was good. We were so good.
I can't do it. Not yet. It's still too close, too raw, too real. Unreality hasn't set in yet. Memory still pulses under the skin here, visible and far too vulnerable.
Besides, these pages stlll have some usefulness.
So. Another reprieve from the axe, for now.
"It never ceases to puzzle me that, while men's and women's bodies fit jigsaw-tight in an altogether miraculous way, their minds remain wretchedly unaligned.”
---Taff Evans reflecting on his last night home before sailing into history on the Terra Nova.
M asked for doggie and I complied, bracing myself both literally and figuratively, letting him pound away and pretending to clutch at the sheets in order to egg him on, to speed it up, to make it stop.
It was ordered, mechanical, just so.
Not like you.
With you, it was organic, it was animal, not to say bestial. You'd brook no resistance. You'd be bulling me all the way up the bed and I'd be clawing at the mattress, striving to remain earthbound, trying to hold on and always failing, and you flinging me off into ecstasy in the dark rain of your sweat.
A suspender belt, sheer stockings, say 10 denier, and heels were required wear.
He made no bones about this: show up without it and you go home. The colour he left up to me, so of course I chose black: black for playboy-bunny playful, black for provocation. Black for hot , fast, and dirty.
He met me in the hotel lobby and led me by the wrist to the room. After a short but hard spanking for a previous disobedience, he instructed me to make myself presentable.
The bathroom echoed with my every move as I undressed, unzipped my bag, fished the silky black nothings from their cellophane packaging, and coaxed them on, at one point bumping my head resoundingly on the towel rail. The stilettos, black peep-toes with an ankle strap, clattered on the tiles as I shoved my feet into them. One of the fasteners on the belt had been sewn on backwards, so I had to twist it to make it work. I prayed he wouldn’t notice.
There’s this thing about suspender belts: you always see them advertised with panties---they have to be, I suppose---but surely the whole point of them is to get fucked in them. The black strips of suspender and the lacy black tops of the stockings suggest, as bondage gear does, flesh contained, flesh outlined, flesh presented for enjoyment, for use even to the point of dissipation. A thong or panties gets in the way: you have to undo the belt to get them off or else fuck around them. I left them off.
One last check: I stuck out my tits, sucked in my tummy, and dared to look in the mirror. You must understand that I am no longer either young or slim, and I had feared that I would look, well, silly in raunch. I didn't. I looked like a fucking babe.
As my lover said a little later, The belt frames the cunt so beautifully.
Not to mention the upraised arse.