I don’t know if W knew, when he chose this topic from the Drafts folder, if it was about our first Tryst or not. Even if he didn’t, it’s perfect timing, since we are only three weeks away(!) from our third Tryst. That first Tryst was an amazing event for so many reasons. I did three very different write-ups about camp that highlight all the ways it was so special. One was about the first scene we did, the very first night of camp, in which he fucked me in public for the first time, right there on the dirty cement floor: The Beginnings of a Twisted Weekend; the second was more introspective, and talked about my emotions during and after the event and my early awakenings to the D/s dynamic that lives, just beneath the surface, of our relationship: Obedience; and the third chronicled the incredible erotic and sensuous scene we had in the outdoor shower there: Juxtapositions. I encourage you to take a moment to go read them. They’re all really good pieces, and highlight the sort of middle space in our relationship, as we began to truly know each other. As well as being good wank material. So go on, read them, and have a good wank…
I’ll be right here.
Okay, back? ;-)
Anyway, for some reason I never ended up writing about the scene we did the last night of the event, and here in the Drafts folder it has languished, until W told me to write about this past week. I’ve done an awful lot of writing the last few days in an entirely different vein, and haven’t had much of the kink energy that drives a lot of my writing, so again, this post languished. But yesterday I started to feel my mojo coming back, and W and I have been discussing tack for Topaz, my wild pony, and I realized it was time to write about Onyx’s debut and W’s and my first scene with her.
It was the last night of the event, and the only night that we’d decided to “dress up” to one of the theme nights. We’d brought my sleeping chains (and of course heels) for the “slumber party” theme night, but we hadn’t attended it, for whatever reason. But we’d been planning for weeks to debut Onyx pony at Tryst, so the “Cowboy” theme that last night was a perfect fit.
Since that time, Onyx’s tack has been improved greatly, and now she is a much better turned-out pony than she was that night…
Onyx always has been a bit of a pretty pony, a prancing, dancing show pony, and does her best to be obedient and well-schooled. She’s young though, and can be headstrong and high-spirited, and it has taken W time to learn to bring her properly into hand. Onyx thrives under firm, gentle direction though, because she wants, above all else, to be a well-behaved pony, if only she is given the proper directives – and can school her flighty temperament long enough to follow them.
That first night, though, W and Onyx were just getting to know each other – and I was just getting to know Onyx, too.
Ponyspace is a very different play space for me. I really become Onyx, dropping into her little show-pony, flighty-pony head quite deeply, and live in that space until I am brought out. That night, as W struggled to learn how to handle me, and Onyx pranced and wandered and ponyied about, I was fully in ponyspace for the first time. The music pounded, and Onyx danced, bobbing and throwing her head, pulling at the reins, prancing and trotting about. It was freeing in a way that is hard to describe. I wasn’t me, I wasn’t a sexual being, there weren’t any expectations of me to be me. I was just – pony.
And that was enough.
Inside pony, though, the girl, the woman, still lives, and eventually she needs to come out again. That night we made another discovery – as much as I thrive in ponyspace, as much of a respite as pony is, I need to return to girlmeat again. I need to be W’s fucktoy again, to feel sexual and female and human again. And not just human, but W’s girl.
I don’t know what cue there was, but we both recognized it at the same time, and right there in the playspace, W took off Onyx’s tack and made me his girl again, with his rope and his floggers and his hands. Tying me to a piece of equipment, he proceeded to flog me, a long, hard flogging that would have driven me to my knees if not for the rope holding me up, while NIN’s Closer screamed in the background.
It was all darkness and shadows and pounding music and the pounding flogger, coming so hard and so fast I could barely breathe. And all there was was his shadow, darker than the others around me, coming at me, again and again, and the shadowy tendrils of the flogger just before it descended on me, the sound of his breathing somehow reaching me through the music and my own blood pounding in my ears.
Until it was over, and he held me, his girl – no longer a pony – once more.