I'm standing where he held me so tight... all of me was encompassed in all of him. As my body approached the Temple of Our Love- where we had gone to gaze at the moon and take refuge from the city life, all of the cells in my body came alive with the memory of him.
I recalled his body pressed into mine, our hearts fused together, his entire spirit melded with the buoyancy of my breath, our faces smiling at our eternal love. We had overcame so much but the last obstacle was yet to come. The last hill was a hill I had to climb without the entrapments of our past. All concepts of love must dissolve, all of our constructed thoughts and judgements were dilapidated frameworks with faulty foundations that we could not see a way out of.
I lit aflame to ALL of it; our past story, our entangled heartstrings, our hurt, our shame and anger, the rage that burned scars onto our hearts, the betrayal of words and actions. Every time the doors shut in fear, our house became empty frames drained of flesh's compassion.
The creeks in the hallways whispered nightmares when I lay my foot upon the wood, they would tell me of the greatest terror I could imagine; that I would be left behind. But it wasn't a dream; he really had to break the shackles of our engagement, our commitments, everything we thought we had must burn away, for us to find the one jewel that cannot be destroyed; the everlasting love in our hearts.
I became naked in the fire, stripped of my identity with him; I could no longer lean or depend on hope. Every time I placed my hands on the walls, they crumbled beneath my touch. My flesh would cook on the stove, but when the water all boiled out I was left singed and damaged by his words of rage.
I, like a wild animal just needed to break free.
I must let every last sinew of my psyche's traumatic past become the ash of a ghost that died long ago. There must be things left in the there, forever; we must allow the falsehood of our pain dissolve into a meaningless pile of debris. Our life journey together became unhinged, truth blew through the rafters, cleansing the grime of our grievances. The doorways flying free and open, I must witness this destruction to the marrow of our love; I want to see the bones disintegrate, and discover what is left.
I found, once all of the constructs of our love were devoured by illusions’s flames, we finally saw each other's eyes untainted with the ghosts that used to rule over us.
But fresh air's graces were not enough to pierce my soul. I lit a match to spark the last fire; our hearts had to burn away all impurities.
My heart was not done throwing daggers, for he was not welcome in my territory any longer, and I was not welcome in his. Our words to our trusted confidants tainted each other so much that neither of our wifeys supported our coming back together, the re-merging of our true bonds of friendship. I resented him for making me the enemy to his beloved; I resented him plotting us against each other. I had to make him feel the pain of what it was not not be welcome somewhere.
So he stepped on my territory in which I had placed mines, and he was ripped open by the force of the blast, his eyes seared terror and disgust into me. Like "Really? Really?! You're not done fighting yet?!"
I threw in my white flag now that I saw war is a futile force of endless brutality- yet somehow I felt even and justified in my offense. Yet I had to clean up the mess of my woe, wipe the blood up from the floor, on my hands and knees in shame and disgust that I, a peaceful lover needed to see him bleed one last time before I could build a new foundation of trust with him.
My tongue found the wounds and licked them, my gentle touch grazed the back of his heart in comfort like a mother solacing her child. We had often felt like each other's children- I his mother, he my father, and allowed each other to be comforted by this parental force. Despite his disgust he let me soothe his pain- one last time.
One last time-words that echoed in my ears because we made promises to each other that neither could keep. We had broken too many ideals of love to have any more weight in promises.
When we stopped feeding coal to the steam engine to our egos, all we had was the incombustible power of love. Every attempt at suicide and murder had failed; I lit a match and I burned it to the ground, and every time we met one another in a place which only magnified our truth; God had shown us that we cannot destroy the only thing that is real.
'Pick up your blown away body parts and piece them together' he said, because the only way to sutra the wounds is to allow each other to love again. He, my villain and my doctor, I sunk back into the comfort of his arms, dissolved into the truth of what we built our life on, and grace's light poured into our vessels like an endless fountain from the heaven's. Angels rejoiced, for when we are enemies, the entire natural world is thrown out of balance. If we could not find love in each other, it would be like if the moon was at war with the sun; if the tides could no longer flow, if gravity was reversed, chaos would ensue upon humanity. No, my Solar lord must shine his light onto my Lunar skin; it is a primordial law that not even the most powerful Gods can change.
I had to infuse my entire heart and soul with the unity of the Self- of no other. While we orbit around each other, while I still feel the halo of his soul over seeing mine, encompassing mine, being the King and the guiding light in my life.... I have to feel equally how I am my own Sun. I am my own source of love and fire. I cannot lean on him to heal and soothe my most tender parts no matter how amazing he is at that, at comforting and soothing me. I am learning to love me, hug myself ... love myself ... every part... so I can never cry out again
"Why don't you love me ?!" Because there will never be a time that I do not love myself. I am the LoveAngel ... loveable love and beloved in myself, Whole and complete.
I know that pain will surface again, I know that the complexities of humanity are not done challenging us; yet we are now ready to meet those challenges with much more compassion, like listening to a small child cry who lost her way. Let’s hold that crying child closer to our hearts; for the yelling and screaming only bruised each other’s hearts to the point where I could no longer expose myself to the emotional trauma.
My love and I board the ship, our footsteps pounding the wood, step by step, following our solemn proclamations of our lamented betrayals. “You lied, you dishonored your word, you left me, I cannot trust you.” The words echo louder than a church bell at noon, and still ring true in the cave of my bones. How do you soothe a lover’s mistrust, how do we traverse the storm of our love?
One after another we walk, like soldiers in the front line of love. Yet it’s no longer guns in our hands, for they are empty. The emptiness is filled when our hands touch, reclaiming our humanity; we are all linked in a chain, and not even guns can stop the human spirit. We recall the rhythm of our breath, a subtle gyration that over takes over our cognition, our hips sway to the lull of the ocean itself; what are we but made of water? The vibration carries us up to our hearts; at least our heads are one inch above drowning indefinitely. Now is the time we sink or swim; perish forever, or slowly build the dream that has survived in our imaginations.We recall the incandescence, the immaculate purity that keeps us together, and beckon it to come forth. You cannot tarnish the spirit; it is beyond the stained sins of physiological crimes. Time brings the decaying rust, yet our love soars beyond the atrophy of muscle and blood.
The wind blows his hair, lifting him above the railing of the ship, and he holds my hand as he floats, gaining a perspective of a new destination; yet that is not the only thing we strive to sail to. We are not arriving anywhere, yet we are traveling. He foresees a way; the way, the way in which we are to love, in presence, and embrace the disgraces of our past, and putting them to rest like the tides below.
Forgiveness slows the tempo of our dance, and we become completely still. An apology of my infidelity, him loosening the grip of his righteous jealousy, and we can hear the seagulls above head. The sky begins to part, and the most subtle signs of sunlight sprinkle their rays on the grey water, and we begin to move toward the golden luminosity. Faith is the steam engine propelling us forward; an intonation that becomes the buoyancy of the boat itself. We never lost it, even if we began to let go, to float away; the faith remained, like a loyal companion. All we had to do was swim back to it and recognize our inherent capabilities to appreciate the sustenance of a force beyond what we could begin to understand.
Music sounds in the lustful pulse of the engine, we begin to cast-off, to prepare for the great voyage ahead; that of building a life together, yet one that never fully drops an anchor to a new continent. We simply ask of each other to just be; to be on the ship of our love, to enjoy the salt on each other’s skin, to take in the freedom of breath, the endless horizon, and the masterpieces of the clouds painting brushstrokes of heaven in the sky.
Night falls, and I become naked against him, yet not nude, but completely bare in my defenses. I am helpless in the presence of his radiant heart, I surrender at the beaming solar vigor inside his chest. A wisdom that I cannot begin to know, but I recognize.
“I love you because of the intricate immaculate weaving of your heart; I could never imagine a lover such as you, Creation had a better plan that what I could craft in my mind.”
We are tender now, eyes gazing beyond our retinas, through the solar systems of rotating worlds far beyond the iris of his eye.
“I could not dream of your entirety, I could not sculpt you, I could not graft your skin from leather. My darling, my sweet darling LoveAngel, I could not imagine a more perfect lover.” My Lord gifts the words, his eyes mimicking the storms of the ocean, excreting the elements of life from his gentle openings, creating a symphony of emotions inside of me. He plays me like a cello, an eloquent depth anchoring me all the way to the bottom of his truth. I am tied to him, no matter how strong the current becomes; I always find my way back to him.
My nipple now exposed, peaking its way out of my dress. we have not discussed the formalities of our sensual protocols, for we have just barely reunited after 2 months apart. Yet he does not shy away from admiring the areola, a request reaching for his tongue. The bow becomes more vigorous on the strings, the tempo escalating to the peak of my arousal.
“May I kiss your nipple?"
I almost died when I heart the words. I could surrender my life, for my flesh had completed it’s duty of incarnation.
“Yes.” I beg. Yes PLEASE…. I say inside my head.
A waterfall drips from his tongue, like a faucet from an angelic realm, eradicating all of my trespasses, all of the mistrust erased. The desert of my desperate flower begins to dampen, the pathways of his entrustment beginning to reform. My breath becomes heavy, the first sign of full arousal since we parted, inflating the sails above us with my heated moans. My sexual longing now at the precipice of absolute pleasure, he does not let up in the intent of liquidating my harnessed rage. His tongue dancing melodies, an enraptured fusion of energy is upon me, my body a vessel traversing a sublime ocean. Yet all of my yearning, all of my frustration is released in this one moment of his tongue caressing the slightest tip of my left nipple, for a new hope is birthed, a force of reckoning, that we don’t try to define. I give myself to his rapture, to the swells of what is building beneath me. I am woman, one with nature, just as wild and ferocious. Yet just as innocent as a young child, only able to see beauty.
“My love, you are the most exquisite delicacy God could possibly bestow upon my noble tongue.”
Our bodies entertained the intelligence of a serpent, yet our hips are the center of our gravity, giving way to an erotic surge, as the boat weeps and wanes, mimicking our love play. We rock in the passions, naked but not nude, just the fabric of his undergarments between us. The first time we allowed our hips to sway unencumbered from the trespassing of the past, and with no discussions of the future, we are only the undulating movement which propels our life-force forward from the root of our groins.
His hand finds the crevice between my legs, now just atop one layer of fabric, I cannot defend my sanctity, yet with each stroke above the nerve endings of my magnetic sanctum is an act of worship itself. My moans build with each breath, he allows himself the pleasure of full entrance to my damp cave with a single digit, and we unite in memories of our sexual rhythms. An inner pulse, a knowing, our hearts compounded with pheromones, with the textures and scents of a recognition that cannot be deciphered with our minds, the papyrus of our love map is only unraveled by a blind intuition, a sensor that is beyond the domain of our singular desire; we are driven by desire itself.
He senses all of me with his omnitude, and when the dams can no longer hold the force of the pressure of my regal oceans, they walls burst apart in a firework display of color and sound. I shower my juice as an ode to erotic gratification, soothing all timelines of my fragmented self to become distilled in the perfection of wholeness of this one moment.
Yet we still haven’t propelled ourselves towards the ultimate human celebration of orgiastic delights; he has not drank of my chalice, he did not dive into my ambrosia with his christened sword; we allow time to deal our fate, not rushing delicacy. We drift along the boat on steady waters, loaded with hormonal ammunition to keep the bonds of our love intact; my beating flesh atop his, I lay to rest upon my true home, nestled into the paramount testament of true love; in the arms of my Lord, my King, of which I never want to part from the light of His Soul.
Cordial Deliverance
Will he drink of me, will he welcome me back into his universe, will I ever deserve his heart’s true offering, all of his soul, his body, and in return his full acceptance of his primal Goddess? The frequencies within me contain a new liquid now; that of life, of every DNA code, of plasma that is needed to create with, to create a child of the Divine. Swimming in blood, and in the stars of what was, the weathered storm inside of me only needs one spark, and I will catch aflame.
He steps into my realm; I drop any expectation of acceptance, I only bare witness to truth, to our truth, to our love’s expression without limits. The parting of his lips, the exhalation of breath, his tongue salivates at the edges of my chalice; will he ingest this cordial deliverance?
Overtaken by the aroma, he is drunk before he swallows; the sheer smell alone tips the cup towards him, spilling the nectar of my decadence upon him. The veils of my undergarments parted, and there is no separation of his flesh with mine. He indulged his bare sword upon my chalice, the offerings of my blood and nectar dripping down his shaft, all reason had left my thoughts, and the very tip of him stalemated the fruit of my feminine entrance. I dared not go deeper, to churn my desire all the way down his bulging shaft, no I lingered, held captive in erotic paralysis. My back arched towards an unknown gate, as if some outside force could pin me to the bed, I awaited the mystery to appear, for I could not maneuver freedom from this rapture. I am now his captive, moaning for his full permission to be all-encompassed by Him.
He took his hand upon his shaft, the tip of which is inside of me, just barely, and he invited the movement of the churning, the churning of my liquids. If I were grapes off the vine, then he devotedly massaged me, crafting the most irresistible intoxicant, with each pass of my flesh on his, the wine masterfully oxygenated to create an aromatic bouquet coveted by the Gods. Unable to be anything other than a lascivious mess, I beg to be plunged deeper, to feel him in his universality, there is not one fraction of him that I will not devour.
The mouth of my love widens, and I plunge forth, down upon him, now our grapes and wine and nectar have become a painting of absolute chaos in heat, I am an uncontrollable fractal of an unadulterated divinity; if there could be a syntax to encapsulate pure heaven, then I invite it to be manifest in me now. Bliss is a flat dimension on a white page with black marks, but when experienced in the body, in such moments when He and I are united, it is a concept that penetrates all dimensions, and unites us to a force that is as holy as creation itself.
My body begins to take shape around him, the pressure of his flesh formulating mine, I am but a musical instrument strummed by the genius of his strokes, I only emote ecstasy through screams and moans, until his hips fuck me open to let out the primal roar, animating not beauty, but the violence of orgasm ripping through every fiber. I am an obscured feminine force, the only thing that is left is the pulse of my sexual synapses, the relentless rhythm of his drum, beating, unable to let up the pace. We only accelerate our hips’ lustful ambition towards the highest peak; that of becoming orgiastic light.
He searches for me, I ascend towards him, to the center of our gravity orbiting the same degree of rotation, an epic crescendo, our eyes locked in a gaze into paradise, our screams are the highest melodic pitch, until he can no longer contain what was held back for so long… apart from his Goddess, distanced from Her skin, now the gap is ever shortened, when at last the geyser within him bursts, as he cries inside of me, crying of the pleasure that deconstructs our souls.
Now, our cordial in homeostasis, utterly complete, his liquids inside of mine, we create the potential for new universes to be spawned.
I'm packing frantically before I hop on a plane in the morning back to Los Angeles. My phone is blowing up, I'm not taking calls, and I'm just trying to eat some food before my stomach implodes.
I'm upset with My Grey... in our last email correspondence, he signed off with his real name,
"Jackson"
Wait.. I thought his name was something else, and now he's Jackson. He has a whole professional life he has to keep from me, as if he's not a free man. Mr. Jackson Grey is probably married...or at least in a relationship. This is only one piece of himself that he’s hiding from me. There’s so much more under the surface of “Ian” than he lets out to be. If he's been living in the barren mountains, I am his tropical paradise.
I tell him I'm over it, and part of me is over it, because honesty is important to me, and I don't like being the Scarlett Letter in someone's life that they have to hide from everyone else. Why can't someone meet a stranger, fuck them... and parade them around the town to for all their colleagues to see? Why, as his greatest inspiration am I his most hidden secret? There are things that we hide, even from ourselves.
I was pissed at him for telling me he "loved me" and didn't even share his real name with me. In my head, pronouns should become before subjective expressions such as "love." Seems so fake and disingenuous to me. But I'm learning Daddy's soft spots, and he needs to know that his little girl cares about him.
Despite me being upset at my Grey, I want to see him; badly, yet I keep pushing him out of my schedule as if somehow denying my feelings would make them go away.
My reluctance and pissed-off, hurt demeanor somehow draws him closer in; Daddy came over for one more rendezvous before his kitten took off from DC.
He walks into my apartment at 5:30pm without a knock. I have been running around all day from errands, I'm high on coffee and little food. I'm annoyed that my laundry isn't done and everything isn't packed for me. It's so annoyed at wasting my time on these little tasks called life.
I tease him for just walking in. And it's the first time I've seen him since he lied to me.
He's dressed in a blue dress shirt, a tie and his trademark blue scarf and no hat despite the crisp January weather. His cocky stance and entrance fit his Dom personality well. He doesn't ask permission, he just walks in. Despite his cockiness, he's vulnerable with his heart.
"Don't go," are his first words to me. This hits me, but it's an unrealistic request.
"Don't go?!" I laugh in his face. If he wants his kitty to stay he's going to have to make a much more grand gesture than just to ask me to stay without any sense of security.
He sees a part of me that I haven't shown him yet; confident, self-assured and independent.
"So you don't knock any more do you,?" I say chewing the first bite of my salad. I'm starving and I don't care if I kiss him with a mouth full of food.
His presence is big, and he makes my heart race, despite his 5 foot 8 frame. He kisses me, passionately, like long lost lovers meeting again after a long separation; of two days.
"How do I make you feel?" He says, hovering over me, his cold blue eyes staring into mine, demanding an answer.
"Scared.... and turned on."
"No. How do I make you FEEL... " it rolls off his mouth with power and passion, his voice gets quieter when he really wants me to listen
"Vulnerable... tender... soft.....?" He asks again.
"Yes exactly, that's why I'm scared." There aren't many men who make me want to squirm and run away, despite the magnetism drawing me closer in.
I try to push him away, I try to deny the fact that he makes me dripping wet.
"Daddy has been stroking his cock all day at his desk thinking of you." He says while his cock is bulging out of his suit pants, staring deep into my eyes, burning his desire into me.
I've been too busy to be stroking cock all day...
We get comfortable on the bed, and he is already raging hard for me.
"I want to lick your cock." He still hasn't let me...it makes me think there's some weird hidden reason. His cock is bulging so close to me and I want it to be pressing closer to my face.
Instead he pears over me, stands above me on the bed, and pulls his drawers down and starts stroking it. It's pure torture, and he knows it; making me stare at his eyes, and not his cock that is dripping pre-come. I'm begging for it to land in my mouth.
I'm touching my pussy now, it's juicy and wet, I'm shaking out of control just wanting a drop to fall on my tongue. I'm begging to have his cock in my face, but he never gives it to me. It's just hovering over me, like a phallic symbol of dominance, of his power over me, I, as sacred site he can conquer any time he wishes.
He comes down closer, his cock still a foot away, and teases me with it.
"Please fuck me Daddy."
"I don't want to just be another one of your men... a pronoun.. a sugar daddy."
Clearly he is something different to me, but maybe he doesn't' know that yet.
I beg until he is about to come, hovering over me, drips of nectar hitting my face..... and he finally breaks..
"What do you want?" He says in a domineering voice
"I want to sit on your cock."
He hovers for quite some more time before saying,
"Do you have a condom?'
"YES!" I jump up like a giddy girl that gets to go to the candy store.
I know it's rushed, and we want to be all romantic... and really I would love to be able to be fluid with him and not have to use a condom.. but ... we do. He puts it on, and despite his previous tease of how he would put his cock in me so slowly, just the tip, and then slowly pull it out, only to then put it in a little deeper, and pull out, then deeper again, causing divine torture inside my pussy. Instead of the tease, he just puts it in, nervously almost, like my pussy is the Bermuda Triangle and he is never to return the same again.
After a few awkward pulses, he realizes he wants to surrender, and he pulls me on top of him. Finally I get to have him the way that I would like; on top, ravishing my Daddy, feeling his cock and orgasm, the moment of intensity, of him bursting inside of me like the most perfect light... if you could see what we were feeling.. it would be the most shimmering radiant golden light. We just hold each other here in this perfect moment, my pussy throbbing in his post orgasmic bliss, riding him every so slowly now, feeling him quiver beneath me, merging with him, kissing his neck, I could devour him completely, but he has to go.
He gets up too soon.. I could cuddle him for hours, his pants are on before I know it and we are saying good-bye. He has a business dinner to get to, and I need to finish packing.
Later, much later I find out he is married. Yet another older married man that has fallen for me. I am not sure what the responsible thing to do is now. But in some ways it doesn't matter because we live across the country from each other, yet I still crave the feeling of floating with him; on a cloud, being seen by him completely, penetrated with presence, and teased and denied because a man wants to be in control of me. I miss his voice, his domineering me into innocence, I miss his palms slapping my face and hitting my thighs. I miss the wonderment I see in his eyes when he looks at me and tells me how beautiful I am.
Yet he forgot to mention yet another small detail.. he’s not Australian either.
3 Months Later
Daddy and I don’t see each other until I return to the East Coast back from California. We have one Skype session in between those long months, with spotty reception and I barely make out his blue eyes, yet his presence still burns into me. His communications are short, although I know he’s constantly thinking of me, and in another time and place maybe he could be mine.
But not in this one.
As soon as I land he asks if he can come over. I tell him Thursday, even though I arrive on Monday night… there’s another relationship I am tending to, a heart even more tender and pure… but that is another story.
Thursday it is.
He walks in the door again, firmly, in a blue suit of course, without the scarf and jacket since it’s April now. I am just out of the bath, and don’t feel like getting dressed despite his request for me to be in stockings; so I’m completely naked under a simple dress. I figure that can be more seductive than having extra layers on.
I don’t want to have an orgasm although I am completely turned on and would love to fuck my Daddy. He doesn’t let me.
“That not what this is about.. it’s not all about sex you know.”
“Then what is it about, darling?”
“It’s about you,” he says, his accent starting to sound a bit more British than Aussie.
“I want you to feel taken care of,” so Daddy has a nurturing side.
Despite our intentions to cuddle, his tongue is down my throat and his fingers are inside of me pretty fast. Yet he smells different; he’s acting different, not as domineering, like I have softened him, and he really does just want to spend time with me.
He draws back, sensing my apprehension, and just studies me. His eyes wander down in between my legs, and he spreads my lips and gazes upon me,
“It’s like a Georgia O’Keefe painting. The most beautiful pussy I’ve ever seen. You couldn’t make it any better.”
While I’m flattered of course, we are all our own self-critics about our little roses… yet he is completely taken back by my beauty which is quite a magical thing to watch as a woman.
We have our moment together.. the chemistry is less intense, as he is not as determined to completely obliterate me with his seduction, he’s showing me a side of him that is less fantasy, and somehow more real. He’s showing me he doesn't’ just want to fuck me, that he wants to have a piece of my heart.
“We live such different lives,” It’s like the Montagues and the Capulets; the married businessman and the freedom loving hippy who has no real responsibilities other than herself in the world. He is much more tied down than me; literally. He lives the white-picket fence American Dream, in which I can never partake with him.
And to top it off.. he’s not even Australian. He’s from Mississippi. Of all places.
I have my first conversation with him, as him, Southern accent and all, and it’s normal, comforting, his voice deeper than usual, as it’s late and he’s had a few drinks. His wife is out of town and he’s at home with his son all weekend so I can’t even see him; I can’t meet him out at a park, or go anywhere with him because his son will see us together. I find out he’s local to this area for the last 20 years, so going into public with him is not an option.
My 1,000 square foot apartment is the only place we can exist together at the moment, and that’s not a great existence for a relationship, even if it is a make believe one.
I text him tonight,
“I don’t even really remember what your real name is. I am completely confused about you.”
I met my Grey as an Australian man, dominant, piercing, intimidating with his presence. Now he is softening, turning more into a southern gentleman, from the South of all places, and he has a life; people to take care of and responsibilities to handle. He can’t just get up and go to Burningman if he wants to.
Instead of responding in some kind of consolidating way, he just says, dryly,
“wanna name me?”
I smile, “Daddy….It’s just strange to meet someone and they’re not who you met them as. It’s as if I have to re-learn you in so many ways. And yet even then I can never have you.”
“want me to leave you alone?” These weren’t the words of comfort I was fishing for.
“That’s too easy.” My heart sinks at the thought of saying good-bye to my Daddy right now.
“your call”
We go on for a while, I demand an apology for lying to me. He doesn’t have much of a conscience around it because he knows how safe he make me feel in person. It’s perfection. It’s strong, it’s solid; it’s as if I can completely relax as a woman because he is in the room. I don’t want him to disappear. I want him closer and I can’t have it so I’m upset at him for even beginning this whole rendezvous which definitely can’t end well.
“Tell me something sweet.” I ask tenderly, as I want to know how he wants me; and I know that he does.
“I wish I were 30, and you were sitting in a college classroom with me. And I could just ask you out. I wish I could just drive over and pick you up.”
But none of these things can happen. He’s in his bed, at home, and I am in mine, vying for him and his presence next to me.
My heart is slightly shrunken, at least I know how I feel about him.
That he’s made his way into my life, into my heart, being my “Grey” or “Daddy” or whatever the fuck he is. He’s here. And I don’t want him to go away.
He came into my life, just as my sex drive was beginning to re-awaken. Dry spells happen, and it had felt like my pussy was frozen over with the winter months, and I lost sensitivity and feeling. I hadn't been deeply touched by a man (as opposed to a boy) in what felt like months (a week can feel like a month for me), and just as a super sex crazed goddess was beginning to doubt man-kind, My Grey delivered me deep soul-satisfaction. I didn't know how much I needed the deep comfort of a man; even if it was temporary.
He didn't ask permission, we didn't make pre-planned agreements about boundaries or limits, or tell past stories about love and lust. He simply walked in my door, and through desire, claimed me. An unsuspecting stranger, and came waltzing into my life, unannounced, uninvited, and certainly didn't play by other people's rules. There are some encounters where you skip over the shallow end, and dive head first for the deepest waters.
"So you're a Domme," he asks over the phone, incomplete in his statement, for he has already seen into my true nature of wanting to be submissive. "But you're really just a sweet little girl wanting to give yourself over to a strong man," he says in a steady and firm voice with a steamy Aussie accent, but with so much passion and fullness behind his stern exterior. He warms me immediately, which is I also find to be deeply threatening.
"Yes I like to be more submissive in my personal life." I say with a light heart, not realizing he would be emotionally and sexually ruling over me the next day.
A few missed emails here and there, but we finally meet on a cold afternoon in DC. I've only seen pictures of him from the face down on a kinky online dating site... so I wasn't sure what to expect from my New Grey. I'm comforted by his his classy demeanor which comes off more British then Aussie.
He leads on that he's been thinking of me ... Profusely... And can't get me out of his mind... The muse has stricken him.
We arrange a loose time to meet, and he gets buzzed up to my door, and walks in as if he owns the place. He's dressed in a nice preppy blue suit and graphic red tie, a pinstriped shirt and a blue scarf, tied tightly around his neck, making him appear taller than he really is.
This is what my Grey did to me; pierced me with his slate blue eyes, erect stance, undyingly seductive scent from his neck... and his heart was mine from the first embrace
My lights have gone out in half the apartment while I was using the blow dryer, and I needed a man to locate the fuse box... he scans the entire apartment and we can't find it, until we recline on the couch, and it pops off the wall and the fuse box catches my eye. He doesn't allow me to have to have the pleasure of fixing the problem; he needs to be the man and do it himself.
Now we can relax... then.. we touch ...
I am completely over-taken by the power in my Grey's embrace. The smell from his collar floats into soul... My heart is helpless against his valor and strength. I'm butter in is hands, and I recline on the bed. him on top of me, still in his suit, and he never gets completely naked.
He is now the seducer, not I, and morality and boundaries go out the window ... For me.
"I'm not going to have sex with you." I say, jokingly, trying to uphold my original intention of meeting him.
"I'm not going to have sex with YOU," he replies sharply back with serious cold blue eyes. Shit my head is under water and he's the only source of oxygen.
He presses his lips against mine, his saliva intentionally dripping into my mouth... And I become wild at the purity of it; it's like morning honey dew.
He presses me onto the bed, his hands firm but never too hard... And he starts to go for my pussy.
I'm doomed at this point, my juices running over, his force growing stronger ... I have trained myself to feel more pleasure with my eyes closed. He forces them open; I cannot enjoy the moment purely for my own pleasure. Grey's fingers are fucking me so he can see the look in my eyes as I come.
"Look at me," Grey demands, and I am scared not too.
I forget his request, the pressure building inside of me, deeply, him pressing into my pussy, I close my eyes again.
"LOOK at me," stating again his wishes for eye contact.
He drives me wild, but I want to feel his cock against me, against my bare skin, in any which way I can, even though he's not fucking me. Dammit.
My naked Ass in the air, and he still has his suit on.
He pounds my wet kitty with his hands, I'm making sounds as if he's fucking me ... He gets me until I turn over, face up again even more vulnerable to his masculine power, he leans in,
"You are intoxicating," he leans up and whispers into my ear, driving the hot knife even deeper into me.
His cock is now taking the stage; it's popping out of his pants, rock hard, bulging with desire for me.
"Who did that to me?" he asks in his intimidating voice, piercing my eyes again.
"I did," I say in a soft voice, him still penetrating me with his hands.
"Who did that to me?" he demands a better answer.
"I did," my voice can't help but quiver
"Say it with confidence"
"I did?"
"Who did that to me?"
"You're little girl did."
He likes that answer better and says I am his favorite little girl ...
We're both working my juices this time, making sure no part of my internal system is untouched.
"Come for Daddy. Daddy wants you to come," he says sternly again, demanding my orgasm for him. We work it up slowly, then more quickly.... until I completely release, staring into Grey's eyes, pushing my pleasure into him, I know he's feeling it too.
He stands up after this, his cock inches away from my face, and touches himself. This drives me absolutely wild, for he doesn't let me suck it, he doesn't' allow me to taste his come, and he doesn't allow me to sit on it either. I am denied cock rights. I've never met a man with such self-control, but it also makes me think he's hiding something.
He keeps stroking his cock, and he is so built up from our encounter, that he quickly squirts all over me, my face, and belly and all over the bed.
He comes in for a cuddle before he says good-bye, and drives his domineering presence even deeper into me.
His mouth is right by my ear, his words aren't processed through my brain, they are first felt in my heart, and then tell my head what to think. They drip out of him like warm golden honey, hitting every fiber of my being, playing me like a delicate violin, staking his territory.
"Tomorrow you are to lay in bed, and forget the way my lips feel on yours." My heart sinks.. I don't want to forget. But this is precisely why he is saying it.
"You are to not remember the way my two fingers feel in your pussy, or the wetness of my come," his eyes burning into me,
He's burning straight into my retinas, not allowing any other thought in my body. Driving the memorable impression deeper, I quiver underneath him, he pierces me so deep into me I want to cry.
Despite his request to forget, I can do nothing but remember.
I must let every last sinew of my psyche's traumatic past become the ash of a ghost that died long ago. There must be things left in the there, forever; we must allow the falsehood of our pain dissolve into a meaningless pile of debris. Our life journey together became unhinged, truth blew through the rafters, cleansing the grime of our grievances. The doorways flying free and open, I must witness this destruction to the marrow of our love; I want to see the bones disintegrate, and discover what is left. 
