I’m covered in goose bumps when his fingers start skimming delicately over my skin. Fingers give way to a warm, wet tongue. Finally, an implement, I think a tiny flogger… and that can mean only one thing: it’s meant to whip tiny places.
As he brushes the fronds across my skin, flicking occasionally so it stings, I feel my mind carried to another plane, a dimension where the sense of touch reigns supreme and other senses retreat. This is what he’s aiming for. My only job is to feel, he said. When the stings grow in intensity, it doesn’t hurt: it just feels stronger. He moves quickly, expertly, from my shoulders to my ankles, stopping at various points for extra attention. He lingers on my breasts, making them feel tight and swollen. The pressure is inexorably building and I know this is my other task, to not give in to the encroaching orgasm. Though he’s asked me to accomplish this feat from the first, let’s just say I haven’t mastered the art just yet.
Up and down, up and down, my skin is warm and flushed and I’m reaching a point of no return. “Ian,” I say, not knowing myself if I’m asking a question or punctuating my experience.
“Shhh,” is all I get in response and the fronds start moving faster, the pattern frenzied and erratic. His hand suddenly grabs me between my legs, rubbing and squeezing me into sensations too big to handle. “Ian, I can’t…”
And… boom. I fail at my task, alas.
His voice slides through my stupor. “Tsk, tsk, tsk, Mrs. Blackmon. One or two simple instructions and you neglect to heed them. What shall we do as a punishment? Hmm, I think I’ve got it.”
It’s not really a punishment; he puts me on my knees and stands in front of me. I love to do this for him but there is one punitive condition: my hands are tied behind my back. That makes it impossible for me to control the situation and it’s a little scary. A little scary is good, though. Exciting.
Soft, hard, smooth, jerky, gentle, rough—all adjectives we used. When he hits his climax, I feel as if I’ve accomplished something important. I love giving my husband pleasure. After, he flings me on the bed and returns the favor.
Later, we lie in bed, entwined and peaceful. Ian’s head leaning on mine, he speaks softly. “Would you like to know what else I saw in you, Ella?”
I look up into his face that I adore. “What else?”
“How much time do you have? Your physical beauty attracted me but it was what was underneath that truly ensnared me. I love who you are: your wit, your sense of humor, your taste in music. The way you give just a tiny smirk before you’re about to blow up in anger, and the way your hair blows across your face when we drive in the convertible. You flip it back and flaunt a million-dollar smile as the wind caresses your face. I love the way you wear your clothes, the way you chew your lip when deep in thought, the way you straighten your spine when undertaking a challenge. I love your spirit for adventure, especially when it comes to sex, and the way you meet me dare for dare, never giving ground no matter how much I push. I love how your blue, blue eyes light up from within when you see an adorable child or animal, how you giggle when something strikes your funnybone, how you blush when you’re embarrassed.
“But maybe most of all, Ella, is that I love how you love me. You make me feel that my love for you is something you cherish and will keep from harm. If I make you feel physically safe, as you’ve told me I do, you make me feel emotionally safe, something I’ve never felt before. I will hold that, protected and warm, next to my heart forever and ever, my beautiful wife.
Tears are streaming down my face when he finishes. I never realized how tenderhearted Ian is behind the polished façade he hides behind. My throat hoarse with unshed tears, I can’t manage a response. I am so choked up by his beautiful homage to me. A marriage is a legal procedure, a piece of paper that says two people are united in the eyes of the law. The practical ramifications are important, of course: just ask anyone who’s been denied the right. But tonight we both begin to realize that it’s so much more than practicalities.
A marriage gives mates the emotional security to open up and let another person inside, not just literally, but more importantly, spiritually. Ian and I have been through a lot, not the least of which were two break-ups, one lasting a year, and one just a few hours. Those few hours when I fled to L.A. hurt more, I think, than the whole year apart because I felt betrayed by the man I love. That was when it dawned on me that I’d rather be whipped than abandoned.
While we’re on the topic of whipping, I should add that he’s not all that interested in it anymore. And, perverse creature that I am, I’m more interested in it precisely because of that. I’m not saying I want it, per se, but I’m not saying I don’t, either. Let’s just say those whips wielded by a tall, gorgeous Dominant I know have taken on mythical proportions in my mind… to the point where I might just have to try it again. We’ll see.