He doesn’t like the mushy stuff. He’d rather hear or read about the sex, the kink, the desire, the heat. But sometimes, I can’t help myself. If I only wrote about that I’d only be telling half the story, and that not the most important half.
I know he won’t see this until after he gets back home, although I could wish he would see it tonight, after his family goes to bed, and I am safely in bed at home, snuggled up with Ad, thinking about him, and this long, long month, and how it is coming to an end tomorrow. I could hope that he would have it to hold close to his heart while he sleeps, because even if he claims not to like it, I know, in his heart of hearts, he does. I know it warms him at night when he is alone, just as it does me.
I walked into his house today to bring in the odds and ends of groceries (true odds and ends: soda, wine, bagels, cereal, apples), his shirts and towels and bedding that I had laundered while he was away; to pick up a bit. His house seems poised, holding its breath as it waits for his return; much like me.
I wandered through the familiar rooms, seeing him everywhere, seeing me everywhere: my shoes in the corner, steel buttplug on his desk, boots against a wall, the candles I had brought over for a party we hosted, the dried roses on his mantle. I thought about being tied: on his floor, on his couch, against his posts; of making breakfast in heels and chains; of being caged next to him in his front room and chained to his desk in his office.
I climbed the stairs to his room and remembered the many times I have climbed down them, my hands tied and legs shaky, him in front of me to keep me safe. I looked at that beautiful wooden floor that he worked so hard to refinish, and how every time he ties me down to it I admire its glow, and him for having brought it out. Much as he brings out my own glow.
I walked by the upstairs tub and thought about the many, many baths I have taken in that tub, soaking away the aches and pains of his abuses upon my body even though I would rather keep them, remembrances of every cruel, wonderful thing he has done to me, so that I can feel them, over and over. I remembered baths we have taken together, when he has washed away grime and piss and blood from my body and held me as I returned to him once again from that place that he sends me. I remembered conversations and debates we have had, as he sat on the stool next to the tub while I drank wine and soaked in bubbles and heat.
And I went into his bedroom, and I smelled him there, on his sheets, in his clothes, in the air. Too many memories to even begin, in that room.
I saw my shoes lined up against the far wall, and I thought about the first time I had come to him, in my square-heeled “dancing shoes,” not knowing what a high heel man he was, but quickly discovering it, and quickly rising to the challenge of finding ever-higher, ever-sexier shoes to wear for him–and being proud that I have always had the knack for wearing even the highest heels with skill and grace.
I opened the closet door, the closet that he had cleared off shelves for me (and put me on once, once-upon-a-time) and the scent of my “going out” lotion wafted out. A mixture of cherry and vanilla, its heady scent is the one I always wear when we are going to a play party, or when we are going to play at home. I felt an immediate, visceral reaction to that scent, a sweet ache between my legs, an instant and unmistakable need in me to feel his dominance & power over me, so sharp it took my breath away and brought tears to my eyes.
Tomorrow, tomorrow, tomorrow, I chanted to myself as I closed the door.
I love that house. I love that it holds so many wonderful memories for me, that even when he is gone I can go there and feel him, just as if he was right there next to me.
And tomorrow, he will be.
I love you, W: my Owner, my lover, my friend.