W’s Brand of “Aftercare”

Not matter who else I play with, no matter how much fun it was or how many times I climaxed or where the play took me, it always, always, always comes back to W.
I made a joking comment today in my Fetlife status updates about W’s version of aftercare today: he drug me into the basement by my hair, lashed me to a post on my knees, and fucked me in the ass.
Oddly enough, I did feel better.  Like, instantly, night-and-day better. One moment I was curled up on the couch, sniffling on W’s shoulder, a grey fog clouding my every thought, feeling needy and lost…the next moment (well, about an hour later, after the basement and then the cool shower he gave me) I was completely revived, my head clear, happy and normal.
I can’t explain why it worked, although I have an idea.
At first I thought it was kind of like that “hair of the dog” thing. You know, here I am suffering subdrop, which is, essentially, my body suffering withdrawals from the emotional and endorphin rush that it experienced while scening. Just like after a night of drinking, when waking up to a Bloody Mary could alleviate a hangover, maybe a little “hair of the sadist” (ewww that sounds wrong) could alleviate subdrop, right?
Sure, that could have something to do with it.  And maybe…probably…does.
But actually I think it has to do with something far more fundamental, at least in this case. I needed to feel him: his hands on me, his rope binding me, his cock inside me.
I needed to feel him claim me once again.
I do know, no matter what those other men are doing to me, that I am his. I never doubt it for a moment. I am there because of him, for him. As they grab me, twist me, push me around, as they shove their fingers and their cocks and their tools into me, as they use my mouth and cunt and ass, as they hurt me and pleasure me, it’s always him I see and feel, it’s always his eyes I seek, and find, watching whatever they are doing to me.
But after it’s all over? I want him to show me that I am his again.
On the floor or in his bed, with my knees grinding into the cement of his basement or my face pushed against the wall, tasting his semen or tasting his piss, feeling his come fill my ass or his piss spraying hot and pungent over my back.
I want to be on my knees for him, I want it to be his cock in my mouth, I want to open my cunt and my mouth and my ass to him.
I want him to take me and make me his again, just as he did this afternoon.  His hands were hard on me, tight in my hair, then on my wrists as he bound them and on my back as he shoved me down onto my knees, his voice harsh as he told me to suck his cock, to keep him hard as he tied me to the post.
It wasn’t difficult.
His cock was thick and hard as he grabbed me by the hips and pushed against my asshole, but it was also wet with my saliva, and he was able to slide in far easier than he does when he fucks my ass dry.  As it always does, though, my body and my mind resisted anyway and I whimpered, groveled and ground myself against the cement, trying to get away from the pain, from the opening of that tight hole that he was forcing on me, even though I wanted it more than I wanted anything else.  Or perhaps what I wanted more than anything else was that he was forcing it on me, that he wouldn’t stop, that he would continue to take, by force if necessary, what was his, what he owned.  Me. My body, every inch of it–and my self.
And he did.  He pushed, forcing my ass to open to him.  He pushed, with longer and deeper strokes, grinding shoving forcing owning–claiming me–until, finally, something broke, some barrier between who I am alone and who I am with him.
And I surrendered.  I opened myself to him completely, welcoming him, begging him to come inside me, to mark me as his, even there.
And as I surrendered, as he grasped my hips and slammed himself into me one final time, filling my ass with his semen, I found that moment when I was completely, and only, his.
I had been reclaimed.