Firsts, part 2

This is what I so really want: a long, relentless, over the knee spanking. One that goes on and on till I am a sobbing, snotty mess, where I am held down while I squirm and try to get away, one that has nothing to do with fucking me (until later, when I am drug off his knees to my own knees in front of him, still snotty, tears running down my face, and he makes me suck his cock, chokes me on it, doesn’t let me recover til he’s done.) And then I am held, and loved, and it’s all okay. I think this is the only “punishment” scenario I ever have. But I crave it right now.
I am not sure what spurred this desire for punishment, the desire for tears.
Or maybe I do.  I was feeling PMS-y, needy and reactionary and thin-skinned…and I just wanted that to be gone.  I just wanted to get all the emotion and tears and anxiety out.  So it is either a good spanking or a sad movie, right?  Truth is, though, I’ve never been driven to tears in a scene before.  Twice there have been tears, but both times were after a scene, or near the end, and it wasn’t pain that broke me open.  It was something deeper, much deeper than where mere pain can go.
I promised to write about this, way back when.  You can read about the first part of it here.  But I never could bring myself to go back there, until tonight, as I lay in the bath and thought about crying.  Because that was the night I cried, startling and disconcerting W, I believe, and maybe myself, with the intensity of them.
How do I even go back there, how do I start?  I don’t know where it began, how we got to that place, where he had his entire hand inside of me.
Sometimes it takes me a while to get to a place where I can write a thing out.  I need the buffer of distance to find clarity, I need to be a safe distance from it before I can approach it in a way that won’t open me up again.  And while I did write about this when it happened, in a private post that is as raw as I felt, it is almost too raw to bear, even for me, even here, where I come to open myself up, to bleed myself out.  But he showed me the pictures the other day, and now I can’t get them out of my head.  Looking at the pictures, I feel it all again.  And I see those damn pictures when I close my eyes, when I look at his face, his hands.
His hands.  God.  So many of my dreams, so much of him is in his hands.  I feel them at the oddest moments, I crave them at times with an intensity that makes me catch my breath.  Curled in his lap, looking at those pictures, I felt such an abject need…  I am not a begger, not a pleader, or at least not in words.  I know I pleaded with him then:  “Please, please, can we do it again?”  in a voice I didn’t even recognize as my own, in a soft, broken voice, a voice that came from someplace inside me I didn’t even know existed.  That was the place that he found that day.  A place I didn’t even know was there.
How could I do anything but cry?
Later, at dinner, he told me about how he had held still, and how I had pulled him in.  I remember that moment, that moment of utter stillness, with both of us on the cusp.  I quiet myself now and fall into that moment again.  He had let my hands down from their restraints at some point, though I can’t really say when.  My legs were still up, a tall V in red cuffs and black heels, but my hands, they were clutching his wrist, holding on for dear life.  Words tumbled in my head–did they come from my lips?  Yes, yes, yes…no, no please, please wait…please, oh god please…until suddenly it all changed, and I was pleading for a different thing altogether.  It was no longer him pushing in, but me begging him to come in, to come into me, inside me.  I was taking him, not the other way around.  It was pure, mindless voracious need.  I needed him inside that deepest most vulnerable place inside me, in my womb, in my belly, so deep inside me he could never leave.
And it was like that, like my entire self was being peeled open to reveal the deepest part of me, and I had brought him there, invited him there, sucked him inside of me there. I think I screamed as I pulled him in, deep primal wordless gutteral screams that might have been pleasure or pain or joy or awe.  Or maybe, triumph.  I was, purely, mindless.  Empty of every thing, every thought, every desire, except him.
I don’t know how long we stayed like that, him crouched over me, his hand inside me to his wrist.   He says he barely moved his fingers, but it felt like…like earthquakes inside me.  Like I was being exploded from within, like he was touching every part of me from my heart to my womb to my cunt.
My heart, damn.  Maybe that was the night he touched that place in me too, when it began.  I don’t know.
I couldn’t come with him inside me.  It hurt too much, was too instense, when the spasms started to come, when I’d start clenching.  I wanted to, so much…and I still do, and I will, eventually.  But when I expelled his hand–because that is what I did, expelled him, pushed him out of me–it was like giving birth, and I came so hard I saw colors.  I came, and I cried, like I never had before.  And he held me while I put myself whole again, while I tried to find my center, now that it had been taken from me.