“I want you to stay here after it’s over,” he said. “I’ll want to get my girl back.”
There are all sorts of aftercare. I usually tend to think in terms of my needs for it, as do most people; a bottom’s needs for some kind of care after an intense or physically demanding scene are usually pretty obvious. My needs vary, depending on the type (and severity) of the scene. Sometimes I bounce right back up, ready for more; sometimes I tease, play and joke; sometimes I need an hour or even a couple of days to recover, with commensurate aftercare by one or both guys. Sometimes the aftercare I need is of a physical nature: a blanket, arms to hold me, hydration, a quiet space to come back to earth. Other times it is emotional: kind words, a reconnecting, being told I did well or that he is proud of me. A lot of times, part of my own aftercare–especially after emotionally-charged scenes–is in allowing myself to noodle through the experience, to pull it apart and examine it, parsing the experience out piece by piece as I try to gain an understanding of what I went through, physically and emotionally. All of these needs are well-documented and usually catered to very well; my guys like me to recover well and fully so that they can do it all over to me again.
I don’t know if W’s need to “have his girl back,” after it was over was exactly an expression of an aftercare need, but I do know that what he was saying, that he wanted me back, his Jade, not the piece of voiceless fuckmeat I had been reduced to, was as deep a need for me as it was for him.
I wanted to feel sex with him as a connection to him, as a bonding with him, not as something remote and emotionless and mechanical that was being done to me. I needed to feel him, to see him–the man, not what he had had to become in order to use me, and allow me to be used, the way he had.
Sex for us is always heavily charged with overtones of dominance and submission. It can’t help but be, that is who we are with each other, it drives our sexuality and feeds our arousal. It is often rough and at times trips along the tricky line of consensual-non-consent. But even at its roughest, even when he is subjugating and dominating and forcing and hurting and pushing and taking, there is always a connection between us. There is at its core this thing between us, the emotional heart of what we feel for each other, and even as I am opening up my body to him I am opening up my heart, and I know that he is sharing his with me.
That was, of course, absent from the scene the night before.
I recognized very early on in the scene, before I went into that no-space, that having lost the ability to communicate–to speak–had a very profound affect on me. In fact I think that may have been the strongest contributing factor to how deep I went, and how quickly. For instance, that picture I posted in yesterday’s post? I had no idea that I had been smeared with the oils and paints that the other Top likes to use. I remember one very clear detail: after they had shackled me, and the other Top had cut off my clothes, he came at me with the oil. I recall that moment very clearly, and then seeing the paint container in his hand, but then nothing else of him painting me at all. It was not until I saw the photo that I even realized he had covered me with it. I was that removed from my own body and what was being done to it. Oh, I came back, but that was later, after they had removed the “no speaking” restriction. Then I was back to myself: I was playful, and laughed and teased and bratted. And even later, in the car on the way home, I was wildly aroused and excited, and tried to get W to let me fuck him while we drove (he didn’t. LOL) But there is that whole space of time when I simply wasn’t there.
In thinking about it now, I actually recognize the space I went as being very similar to ponyspace. There, too, my voice is taken from me. There, too, I am a dumb animal, reduced to a body, an animal, although in the case of Onyx, a much-loved, cared-for, pampered animal. I don’t exactly disassociate with my body in ponyspace, as much as with W and Ad as men, as sexual partners. They are my humans in that space, my handlers, not my lovers.
W was most certainly not my lover that night. I lost all connection with him as my lover, and was definitely no longer “his girl.” Which was exactly what he was looking for, I think. I was as much a collection of holes to him that night as I was to myself. If it had that profound an affect on me, wouldn’t it have on him? His statement beforehand that he would need to “get his girl back” may have been for my benefit, but I don’t know. Playing this way is edgy for us both.
So yesterday, even after being used that long and hard, even though I was so sore, I still needed sex with him. Desperately.
That was the aftercare I needed. And that I think he, too, needed.
And he obliged. Oh, it wasn’t sweet love-making. Even as aftercare it is never that (and wouldn’t work if it was.) He hoisted me up on his desk and fucked me there next to my computer, whispering dirty things in my ear. He pushed me to my knees in front of him on the couch and told me to hump myself on his leg until I came while giving him head. And then he came, groaning as he filled my mouth. He held me, one arm around my throat, while I masturbated to an orgasm, because I’d been distracted by giving him head (yeah, not so much a multi-tasker in that respect.) And later…later, in bed that night, he pushed himself into me and filled that empty space inside me, the space that was still “no-space” with his come as well. And it was in that moment, as he held me tight, releasing himself into me, that I finally, truly, came back to myself. That I became “his girl” again.