Smiles

My husband is divine. He walks through the door and I am so happy to see him, to have his meal ready, to hear about his day and tell him about mine. Mainly though I am just desperate to put the kids to bed and be ravished by him. He tells me he doesn't understand my desire for pain, for Sir, for submission. I look at him and smile.

The pain he puts himself through. He is a runner. He ran an ultra marathon at the weekend. I love to see him, sweaty and hurting. He staggers in the door having just run 50kms. Having pushed himself past where it is comfortable, past where it is pleasure, past what is possible, through to the other side. He traces the marks on my back and I rub his legs...I am sure he will understand one day.

I arranged for someone to come and massage him while I was out last night. They were just winding up as I walked in. It was gorgeous to see him luxuriating. It was almost erotic to see someone touch him as he lay back, blissed-out - not to mention his legs were too tight to contort themselves the way I needed. Now he is better able to serve my needs *insert grin here*.

So the Panna Cotta...Well I would love to tell you how it went but I plead sleep deprivation and did not make it.

I messaged Sir last night. I had not heard from him in two days. It is funny, you know. As I have said before, I get these games, the holding back, stepping up at the right times. I understand it. I have never experienced it from this side of the fence. I always imagined it to be awful and uncomfortable. It is. I never imagined I would enjoy it however - and I am.

There is a tiny part of me that wonders maybe if he forgot about me. I relish it as much, perhaps more, than the part which knows he was just waiting. Waiting for me to come to him. We both know where I am at now. Helpless. Owned. Whether it would take two days or a month of Sundays I am tied here. I will think about it, about him, every day. It is all a matter of how well I can hold myself in feigned nonchalance and for how long I would wish to.

The terror of going there, being with him is gone now. I feel the difference in my flesh. Now it is just pure hunger. Of course as I shower, dress, kiss my husband, hug my children goodbye and get in the car to see him it may arise again.

It is interesting, this process.

He reads me from afar. I am fascinated by his capacity to know what makes me tick, what makes me squirm, what I hate, what I want. I message him and that (almost) desperation to hear a "Good Girl" or "I am so proud of you" is never lost on me no matter how many times I feel it. It makes me blush, hot and wet. Knowing that, he pushes further. My Achilles heel. I don't know how he knew. I didn't know. I should expect that by now. "Good Girl" makes me needy and cutesy and sweet and wanting but when he tells me I made him smile I am reduced to a pliant mess. He has said it several times recently, "smiling" or "smiles". I have not spoken with him about it. He has not seen me swoon. I do not know how, through the medium of text he is able to unravel me so unerringly.

Today is a baking day. Kisses and brownies, macaroons and jam-drops, a few muffins and some cookies.

Today I will be thinking about Sir and cooking to assuage my desperate need to see him. I will whip and beat and fold and taste in a vain attempt to stay present to my life and not drown in my desire.