Juxtapositions

There’s those times when he ties my hands to keep me from protecting myself. From blows, from slaps, from whips or crops or canes. I know those times well, and I know the feeling of helplessness, of fear or rage or panic, when I can’t get loose, can’t protect myself, can’t escape. When the strikes have pushed me to the edge of tolerance or reason, and the only thing keeping me from rolling into a ball, rolling away, escaping, is the fact that my hands are secured, behind my back, to a something solid, above my head.
Friday night, in the playspace at Twisted Tryst, was one of those times. Tied with my hands high above me, but my legs free, I had more mobility than he typically gives me. “I’m starting to see the fun in leaving you a bit of room to move,” he’d said the other night. Now, as he slashed at my ass, thighs and calves with the nasty leather whip I’d stupidly bought him in Mexico, a dragon’s tail, and a cane, and I twisted helplessly from side to side, I could see the gleam of wicked amusement in his eyes.  Oh yes, this was a lot of fun for him.
Then there’s those times he ties my hands so that he can have unimpeded access to my cunt, ass and tits, to pinch and pull and maul, to fasten things on nipples or labia, to grab and crush my girlparts or shove his fingers or cock or toys deep inside me.  It’s just easier that way, not having to keep batting my hands away, yanno?  It was that way on Saturday afternoon, or maybe it was Friday, when he put my hands and feet in stocks as I lay on a blanket in the sun next to our tent, exposing my pussy to the sunlight and anyone who happened to look our way, and proceeded to fuck, maul and ram me silly, right there in the middle of the campground, and I couldn’t do a thing about it.
Well, except orgasm.  Over and over.
Then there’s those times when he binds my hands to touch me gently, lovingly…
Actually he doesn’t usually tie my hands for that. Usually that is after my hands have been untied, and he’s taken me down, and is holding me while I come back to earth; back to him.  Usually.  But that man is always full of surprises.
I was actually thinking a lot about this after Kaya said in a response to someone on her post about the weekend on Fetlife: “I’ve always struggled with the dichotomy that is him; romance and sadism.” Later she said something about wishing he’d decide to be one way or the other.  I don’t really believe she’d prefer him to be be only one or the other, though.  For my own part, I distinctly remember a time after W and I had been together for awhile and I spent a long weekend with him.  He was especially hard on me all weekend, and I went from bondage to beatings to rape-like fuckings and back into bondage.  It was an amazing weekend on many levels, but without much of the tenderness I know he is also capable of displaying and feeling.  At that time our relationship consisted mostly of scenes, not the real give-and-take interaction we have now, and I wasn’t sure he was capable of tenderness, of gentleness. I went home afterward to Ad, and I said, “I am so glad I have you to come home to. I couldn’t do that all the time. I need love and nurturing too.” I was a little afraid of W then, a little afraid that it would be too much, that I had gotten myself in too deep. I needed the BDSM play, but I recognized that without the rest, without tenderness (at least) or even submission, as opposed to simply S&M and bottoming to him, that our relationship would probably be of short duration. I’m not a masochist, in it only for pain’s sake. I need connection too, and with connection (for me) comes love. If that wasn’t there, I don’t think things would have gone far.  As it was, our relationship grew and deepened, and I did see another side to W, a side that allowed a relationship to flourish that was more than just play.  One that is two years old and growing stronger by the day.
But back to how he constantly surprises me.
It was late in the afternoon, Friday or Saturday of this past weekend (funny how the days all blur together.) He’d brought a new toy he’d made for me, wooden stocks that went around my neck and held my wrists up. It’s really a beautiful piece, and as he placed it around my neck that afternoon, all I could feel was such a sense of pride in him, that he could make something so beautiful for me, and a shy kind of joy and surprise that he wanted to display me that way, that he found me worth displaying.  Wearing only the stocks and a scarf wrapped around my hips, he walked me through camp to the outdoor shower, which I had not yet had the chance to try. When we got there I fully expected him to release me so that I could get my shower, and maybe he intended to when he’d first taken me there, but that’s not what happened.
What happened was the most sensual, erotic interlude that I think I have ever experienced. Keeping me in the stocks, he proceeded to wash every inch of my body, inside and out. His hands left no centimeter of skin untouched, uncaressed, unloved.  I truly felt a valued, treasured possession in his hands.  I felt worshiped as well as owned.  And when he pushed me to my knees to suck his cock, I was worshiping him and honoring the amazing place that this relationship has taken us.  And when he turned me around slid inside of me, it wasn’t about brutality or humiliation or force or even taking, it was homecoming.  It was celebration and possession and joy.
Later that weekend he would beat me with a ferocity he hasn’t shown in awhile, a beautiful, startling aggression that left me limp and exhausted. And through it all I remember juxtaposing that man–The Mean Guy–with the tender, caring man that washed me so gently that afternoon.  I need both those men–and know how blessed I am to have all of him in my life.