Oh, dear. What's a top to do?
We had quite the spirited "discussion" about it. He tried bringing up that "Top is always right" business again, but I wouldn't have any of it. "The top is always..." he said, trying to coax me into finishing it. "The top is always late," I snapped.
"No," he said, punctuating his point with vigorous slaps. "I'll give you a hint; the word starts with an 'r' and ends with a 't.'"
"The top is always a rat!" I crowed triumphantly. Wrong answer.
But speaking of r---t words, I told him that if he wanted to be treated with respect, he'd have to earn it. He claimed that he already had, and I needed to learn how to respect him. I could start by kissing his hand.
He then smugly stuck his hand in front of my mouth. And I promptly bit it.
I think that might have been the proverbial last straw. The heavy artillery came out, including that godawful "boot camp" paddle, the one with the boot sole that leaves wicked tread marks. Much lecturing ensued. Oh, the fuss he made! "Do you know that you hurt my finger?" he hollered. "Do you know that you're hurting my ass?" I threw back.
"You leave teeth marks on my finger, I leave tread marks on your bottom," he growled. OK, he was keeping up with me.
(In case you're wondering, that shiny thing on my right cheek is a clear Tegaderm protective bandage. I'm trying to give that weakened spot a bit of a break, and it seems to be helping. No fresh "butt measles" yesterday, despite the intense play.)
He gave me a second chance to kiss his hand. And guess what I did a second time?
As you can imagine, that didn't go over too well either, and he made sure I knew it. After the next flurry, he started asking me questions about whether or not that had been a good idea, and what I was going to do next time. I didn't answer, and he said, "Let me ask again." But instead of asking, he gave me another flurry. "Ask already!" I screeched. "I just did," he replied calmly, giving me yet another round. "You don't recognize that language?"
"OK, I'll ask in English," he said cheerfully. "Is biting your top something you will refrain from, from now on?" When I didn't answer right away, he added, "Did you understand that question?"
"Yes," I grumbled, "now that I've put it through my Asshole to English dictionary."
Everything after that is a blur. :-)
Until, of course, the third time he put his hand to my mouth. And I tenderly kissed his palm, cupping it to my face, after thanking him. While he told me that I was the best bottom ever, he could never want for another, and he disciplined me because he cared about me.
Alllll better. So much yum.
Yesterday was one of those days where I didn't want to return to the real world. I wanted to stay in the bliss bubble and simply be with my top. But alas, he had to go be a dad, and I had my own things to do. And yet, after he left, I was still in that soft, wistful, fragile state, and wanted to capture it. So I experimented with my camera's timer and some arty effects, and got this:
Some who don't know me, might look at a photo like this and think, "She's been broken." On the contrary. I was put back together.