Reconnection

I realized something about myself last night. I need to reconnect, to decompress and re-establish myself with W as a human being, as a lover–as opposed to a piece of fuckmeat, a cunthole–as much after an intensely sexual scene (or series of scenes) as I do after an intensely painful scene.
I am balanced again today. In a good headspace, “me” again, after a weekend-long scene that took me from incredible, mind-blowing 3-way sex to fucking in a taboo place; from a deep, satisfying beating that mixed romance and pain in equal measures to a panting mindless clawing need to have him inside me as he filled me with steel balls and proceeded to fuck them inside me; from feeling him shudder & spend himself for the first time inside me as he held the shackle at my throat to opening myself up to him in a way I never have with anyone–my body literally pulling his hand inside my cunt before expelling it in a birthlike orgasm that left me in tears. Not to mention being strung up like a side of beef and “examined” in minute detail and with meticulous note-taking (some of it on my ass) by a mad scientist or being taken to a restaurant with a buttplug up my ass. And the while being told I was a cunt, fuckmeat, a slut for his–and others’–use, a hole to be filled & used in whatever way he wanted. By the time he finished with me here at our house, in the taboo bed (my son’s room, how fucked up is that?) I was so deep in the place he’d put me it was like waking in a dream, the edges of my world soft and blurred, my perceptions of self no longer anything I recognized.
Because I am not those things. I like sex, love it, revel in it and in my femaleness, revel in the whole of myself as a sexual being along with all the other pieces of me, but I am not always comfortable with the edges of my sexuality, with the grasping reaching fuckhole that I become, with the woman that will allow her body to be used in any way he wishes. Maybe even craves it. That open, gaping hole of need that is both me and other, that is at the center of myself, the desire for simple mindless fucking that transports me from this person in my head to something both lesser, and more.
And so, when I am transported there…just as when I am transported out of myself by pain…I need to be brought back. I need to return to myself, to a self that I recognize; and I need to know that he still cares, that even though I have done these awful things (or allowed them to be done to me), I am still lovable, he still wants to look at me, he still “respects me in the morning.” lol
I didn’t realize that this kind of reconnect was necessary for the sexual stuff. But then I have never been taken to the places he takes me, that he took me this past weekend. I really really needed to look at him & talk to him, see that I still interested him, delighted him, could make him laugh. That he still wants me as me, that he still likes me.
It sounds pitiful put that way. The little girl eternally craving love and acceptance. And you know what? That’s okay.