I must backtrack for a bit. When I spoke with Steve last Thursday, he was not doing well. A lot of work stress, plus the added aggravation of having to move (the house he's been renting for years has been put up for sale, and he doesn't wish to buy it). I asked if he was coming over Monday, and he said with regret in his voice, "I really don't know. I've been so out of it lately, not sleeping well... I don't think I can get into the right head space for play, sweetie."
"Listen to me," I said. "We don't have to play. I'm your friend. Come over and just talk to me, vent, whatever you want. You don't have to perform for me. I just want to see you." I meant it. He could tell, because he agreed to come by this morning.
I had no expectations of play whatsoever, and when he came in, I could tell he hadn't been exaggerating about how stressed he was. I've never seen him so tense. When he tried to send a text to a colleague, he fumbled the phone. I had him lie down on my bed, and I massaged his head until I felt him relax. "Thank you for taking care of me," he said. "I'm sorry about the role reversal. I should be taking care of you."
"You will another time," I said. "For now, you need to rest." He wound down a bit, talking less, and finally murmured, "You know, I'm fading... I could go to sleep right now." "Then go ahead," I insisted. Right after that, he practically passed out, poor guy. He slept for the better part of an hour, I think.
After he woke, I stretched alongside him and we chatted some more. He thanked me again for being here for him, and I answered, "Thank you for letting me. I was afraid you were going to shut me out, because you were so stressed out." He went on to assure me that he would never do that, no matter what was going on. As we talked, I could feel him coming back. His voice, his body language, everything was changing from the tense man who had walked in a while ago back into the Steve I see every week. "How many times do I have to tell you I'm not going anywhere?" he teased. I shrugged, and he added, "You do know that, right? You'd better know it, or I'll roll you over right now."
Hmmm. I liked the sound of that. I still didn't answer.
With a little bit more of a toppy edge, he repeated, "You do know that, don't you? Say yes."
All I had to do was say "yes," and I was off the hook. Instead, I smirked at him and replied, "I'll think about it."
"Oh, that's it," he growled. "If I had my bag with me, this would be a boot camp moment. You'll think about it?? Go get me something. I'll give you something to think about."
Giggling, I went to my closet. And then temporary insanity overtook me. I could have brought him the Cane-iac OTK strap that I like so much. Or a leather paddle. But no-o-o-o. I brought him that @#$%ing Strictly Lickin' Stick, the one Kat sold to John at Shadow Lane.
How does one describe this monstrosity? It's not a thick, thuddy paddle; it's only about 5/16" thick. But it's not just one piece of wood; it's actually six super-thin layers of hardwood laminated together, finely sanded and polished, then coated with lacquer. It doesn't quite sting, either. It burns and it bites, unlike anything I can think of. It's NASTY.
Why I brought it to him, I don't know.
He wasted no time in flipping me into position on the bed and shoving pillows under my hips. "No warm-up," he said calmly, laying into me immediately. Oh, my God.
"Still thinking, honey? What are you thinking now? Hmmm?" It was all happening so fast and so intensely, I couldn't think at all. "Uhmmm, nothing, nothing! I'm not thinking anything! Ow! That hurts!"
"I'm sure it does," he replied, continuing. "I need to remind you. We're going to rename this 'the reminder stick.' You need to be reminded that I'm here for the long haul." I tried to process the pain, sink into it, be with it, but damned if that thing wasn't setting me on fire, so I struggled and kicked.
"No," he scolded, "no kicking. Keep still. I'm not going to stop until you stop moving." So I'd manage to for a few swats... but then squirm and thrash again.
"You still thinking about it?" he asked. "NO!" I hollered. "I'm not, I'm not!" "So are you sure now?" "YES!" "Tell me." "I'm sure you're not going anywhere! I'm sorryyyyyy!"
"Just a few more," he assured me. The only problem was that he said that three or four times!! "Keep still," he warned again. "I can't, it HURTS!" "I know, honey."
I tried, I really did. I managed to hold perfectly still for a few more. But when that last one cracked down across both cheeks, I lost it. "STEEEEEEEEEEVE!" tore out of my throat in a shriek, and I swiftly rolled onto my back, my arms and legs frantically curling up and in.
He did not attempt to reposition me. He knew I was done. Instead, he pulled me to him and held on tight. "It's over, baby. Hold onto me. Let it out."
I burst into tears. The good kind. The kind that cleanse me from the inside out.
No, it wasn't one of our long, multi-layered scenes. It was quick, unexpected, spontaneous, and ferocious. But it was what we both needed, apparently. The tension was gone from both of us. Soon, I was laughing through my tears. And he was laughing too.
But I still hate that fucking Lickin' Stick. :-Þ
He didn't bring his camera today, but I took a couple of "selfies" after he left.
Look at my sulky face! Don't you feel sorry for me??
Yeah, I didn't think so. Nuts to all of you. :-)
Especially you, Kat!!
(P.S. All kidding aside... I ♥ you, Steve. Thank you. I hope things will all fall into place for you soon. Until then, I'm not going anywhere, either.)