Over the course of that week back in January 2018, following his return, Sir stretched me and pushed my boundaries, always ensuring that I was safe. Giving clarity and focus to my submission with each little job he gave me. Approaching the Friday it became clear that we would both be available to see each other. Or, more accurately, to spend time together. Naturally, I guessed that my sight would be restricted. It always had been, why would that change now?!
He laid out his requirements in an email that I would read and re-read over and again.
Making sure I knew what he wanted of me. He set me the task of laying out my current hard limits with the additional instructions that I “Be specific”. Reading through that list today I can see that they had changed from the first time I told him what I wouldn’t do. This list was longer and more detailed, as my understanding of the scene grew so did my knowledge of what was possible and/or desirable. Also what was physically safe, what I could get away with regarding marks and what I found- quite frankly- icky!
One example of my limits changing was that in where previously I had craved marks, any marks. And all I knew was that the bruises made me feel good. However, I had never previously given any thought to their location. In my head I didn’t need to because, well, bottoms are for marking. But the request to be specific meant that I had to think. Yes, I love marks, but I don’t want them below my knees or elbows, or above the neckline. Since 2018 my limits regarding marks have developed further. Not only do I now chose not to be intentionally marked in any of the places previously listed, but I also don’t wish to have heavy impact on my breasts, those marks bring about drop. But, while some boundaries are clearly defined from the off (SCAT for me) often we learn our limits through trial and error.
I’ve digressed somewhat, sorry! Back to the day in question…
While the boys were at school on the Friday I prepared as much as possible. Gathering the bits and pieces he’d requested I take, cleansing myself and sorting my outfit. His requirements of a skirt and bare legs remained unchanged, as did his instruction to not draw attention to myself in the reception area. He also confirmed that I would, once again, be wearing the blindfold. Sitting in the hotel carpark I was nervous.
Of course I was!
It had been 20 months since we had last spent time together, I had changed so much- physically, emotionally. What if I wasn’t what he wanted anymore? What if the fire had left our in-person dynamic? There was no sign of my submission dwindling via tasks, but I’d not been able to submit to anyone else since he left, what if that was just the way I was now?
I’d no clarity around, or focus for, my submission for so long.
But of course. This was sir!
And as my tasks had demonstrated the way that I felt for him had not changed. My desire to please him, to stretch myself for his entertainment had never faltered. And he knew every little thing about me. Plus, he’d seen my body in all it’s battered and overweight glory. This meeting was by his invitation. Had he disliked what I’d displayed in the week he would have made sure he was unavailable.
And so I trusted that he had everything planned, to his own exacting standards. And with that I left my car and crossed to the main entrance.
Walking into his room felt like arriving home.
His scent enveloped me as it always has done when we get together in his space. And the blindfold took me to my submission immediately. Some memories from that evening are crystal clear today, over 3 years later. But fortunately I have most of our correspondence and the post scene email fills in the blanks.
The clearest memory of the night remains the clamps he used. Clover clamps on my nipples, as normal, but a different kind of pain on my labia. These felt like pickled onion grabbers, you know those special tools for grabbing pickled onions out of a jar? And he had two, one on each side. As he wiggled and jiggled them my stoicism left me.
I became a poor excuse for a masochist shrieking “owowowowowowowowowowow”.
This was the second time he’d fractured my cool, calm processing of pain. Turning me into an uninhibited, howling mess! Naturally I would later try to find these clamps for my own collection, but that night… he just chuckled when I asked what on earth he was using.
My hair had grown so much since our last time together. Now, he was able to use my ponytail as a lead. Guiding me round with it, as I crawled about the room or moved into his position. Our evening was “short and sweet” but it was the intense scene he had promised me when we had our first conversation the weekend before. (Was it really only a week? He has always had the ability to change my perception of time.) How many orgasms had he ripped from me? I’ve honestly couldn’t say… but all of my holes had been used and my pleasure was not left on the wayside.
Concluding the evening Sir rode my face to his climax.
This was something I have always loved him doing but that night felt more, somehow. Possibly as it had been so long between escaping into this bubble of Dominance and submission…? I relished in his deliciousness as he flooded my mouth and throat. Together we caught my uvula and I twisted away slightly, spilling his seed from between my lips. Wasting a few drops, but marking my cheeks with his scent. Was it really a waste if I would be wearing him until I washed? Would I ever wash my face again?
Before he had extended the evening’s invitation I knew that he would be off working again the following Monday. But this was a fantastic way to reconnect with Sir. And to return to myself. To revisit a space that I’d worried was lost forever.
There was a certain clarity and focus to my submission now. It hadn’t gone anywhere. It was just entirely his. No wonder it had been so lacking in his absence!