Tinsel In The Letterbox

My well curated drive does like to tell me some stories, memories popping up as and when they feel like it. Perhaps prodding me to continue with the story behind the blog? It has been a while! The memory it flagged up today was a photograph of my old doorway. Taken early July 2018, the letterbox adorned with tinsel. Why on earth would I have tinsel in my letterbox? And in July of all the months! Was this just a phase of my life. Or a sign of something sinister?

Let me tell you what got into me; to write about tinsel in my letterbox!

Let me start at the last post in my story, my grans funeral.

That was a sad time for me. Funerals tend to be anyway, but when celebrating the life of someone so central to your world the grief is challenging. My life was suddenly incredibly full though, so many tricky things suddenly popped up at the same time. My focus was pulled away from Sir, and though we maintained regular contact I had enough trouble keeping track of, and fulfilling, my own tasks. He stepped back and gave me the space to do what was needed, supporting me from overseas as he completed his own important tasks. (“We all have tasks N.”)

Over the month of June I was able to attend courses on Autism, to enable me to support my older son. There was also a family domestic abuse recovery course, not to mention my personal therapy with Devon rape Crisis. As I’d completed the year of studies with the Open University, I’d been able to fill that time (and more) with these important sessions. There were also meetings with the school. They had been able to make adjustments before my son’s diagnosis. But now, armed with the hospital feedback they had more options.

Then there was my running, which was increasing every week, and as I was regaining my health- both physical and mental- I was starting to take more pride in my appearance. Seeing myself the way that Sir does, caring for me. The skirts that I was so accustomed to wearing under his rules were a permanent fixture; nice underwear was becoming a regular occurrence rather than a rare treat; my blonde hair was getting brighter, though still had a couple of months to reach the shade it is now.

Feeling sexy was not solely for others, it was becoming part of me.

And then there was my blog, which had suddenly been yanked from existence by the powers that be. WordPress had pulled the plug due to its pornographic nature. All of my work lost, or so it seemed. Thankfully the sex blogging community jumped to my aid, and I was soon self-hosting. Not only was I able to display the lost and found posts, but I was able to continue writing, safe in the knowledge that I was securely hosted on an adult server.

The list of self-set tasks never stops growing but I was becoming more settled when conversation with Sir turned to his work. Specifically, his movements within it.

He was expecting to return to the UK a couple of days later and hoped to see me. Asked if I would be available? I’d move hell and high water to make that happen, so long as the boys were fine. I gleefully told him that my weekend was indeed clear.

Together we waited.

He’d requested I edge as much as I could, while the potential plans unfolded. We discussed what he would need should he be available. There were sexy discussions to recap limits, safety and expectations. There was more edging, and I turned from a patient woman into an overstimulated and permanently aroused submissive. Just what he had been hoping for, no doubt.

Then the Sunday morning came. Predicted arrival time confirmed.

Though he knew where I lived the doors looked the same. After a long drive he needed to know, without a shadow of a doubt, that he’d be letting himself into the right house. And that’s why there was tinsel in my letterbox.

As I knelt on the floor, naked with my forehead on the carpet, I recognised his gait as he climbed the hill. Then he stopped, turned and entered my living room. Our time together was intensely wonderful.

The rope that bound me for him, the passion that bound us together. His body pressing into mine, onto mine, over, under… Inspections, requests and explorations, his orgasms ripped from my body. His hand pressing into my hot cunt, stretching me, pulling away and repeating. I didn’t accept him fully, but the sweet, delicious sensations burned into my memory forever.

Sweet humiliation as the doxy was placed in my hand, his instruction to make myself orgasm while he beat me. Heat flooding through my core, my leaking vaginal the ultimate betrayal for my coy self. The cane raining down harshly on my soft, fleshy hips, thighs and buttocks. My wanting more, always, until the cane was no more! His breath on my flesh. The gentle touch, contrasting sweetly along the burning welts.

Counting for him, thanking him, begging him…The taste of his body on my tongue. Lips brushing my cheeks. Goosebumps erupting across my entire body. His pleasure erupting, his release cooling on my breasts.

All too soon we had to step out of our bubble of physical dominance and submission. Return to the real world where our responsibilities spread far beyond our haven of D/s.

It was time to remove the tinsel from my letterbox.

I’m sharing Tinsel In My Letterbox to Wicked Wednesdays Final prompt, ticking the bingo box of Phases Of Life as mine was certainly passing through into new territory at this point. It is the latest instalment of the story behind my blog. If you’ve not read any before, do start at the beginning. The next post can be found here: Fresh Air And Big Skies.