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We talk a lot about trust in relationships. We trust our partners when they tell us their feelings. We trust them about who they are interested in, why they like us. In order to feel our most profound emotions we need to open up, to trust each other. At least that's part of the story.
I'm not sure that part's true. We can feel all of those feelings—love and excitement, passion and interest—without trust. We can even feel another emotion that isn't fun for everyone, but is part of most relationships anyway—fear.
Of course, some of us thrive on fear. We thrive on either evoking it or experiencing it. We thrive on the thrill of potential rather than trust in the known.
Trust, however, is the safety net. Trust is the emotional condom to stop the infection of real (or nonconsensual) danger. We find people who are worthy of trust so we can relax and experience the emotions we want to.
The rough hemp fibers bite into my ankles as she pulls my legs apart. She fiddles with the rope for a moment tying it to the bed frame. The restraint combined with the roughness of the rope is delicious.
“Just relax, toy.”
I pull her in for a kiss with both of my hands on her cheeks—a sweet gesture, a possessive gesture. The kiss is hungry—we both want more. Her knees buckle and I tighten the grip of my fingers on her face—I can tell she’s hoping to kneel so she can lick my cunt.
I whisper, “Just stand here and look in my eyes.”
When your partner drops into submission, it is unmistakable. All of the worries from when they gave you freedom to do something to their body are magnified because now they want to please you, to make you happy by doing whatever you want.
The first gift I was given as a top was the gift to freely do what I wanted to. After discussing what that meant, of course. She said I could tie her up and hit her lightly. It was amazing to realize that kind of power exchange, that freedom.
This year was busy. Even if I just stick with the relationship stuff.
But wait... I also put out a few books.
A busy and good year. Here's to another one next year.
I pull the black nitrile glove onto my hand. We don’t use them often with each other—it’s not how we do things—but when we do it means something. Sometimes it means “I’m not myself tonight.” if I put them on. It can mean I’m more detached, or maybe it means that I plan on being rougher and don’t want to worry about nicking her with my nails, no matter how short they are. It always means that it’s going to be an intense scene.
I’ve collapsed in a rumpled heap on the damp, leaf covered earth. Mistress and her dark-haired friend are standing over me, looking down over my bloody, beaten body. I feel fantastic, riding the wave of endorphins and orgasms. I start to come back to earth, getting ready to give up the freeing, floating feeling.
Mistress hooks a finger in the ring on my collar and jerks me to my knees. “Get up, fucktoy. It’s time to go inside. We have a feast to prepare.”
I’m breathing heavily. We haven’t even started and sweat is dripping down my back. I haven’t even started moving. Mistress is somewhere nearby, but I don’t know where. She said she’d have friends with her. I haven’t seen them, yet. I’m sure they will find me, though. I shiver at the thought, my bare skin puckering up as my hair stands on end. Excitement and fear building in me.
