"Mornin'." He sends her a message.
"It is, yes," she replies. "I need to resched if you'll allow."
"Aaahhh, no way. Really? :("
She feels badly. She knows he had plans for her. Devious, painful plans about which he was very excited.
She also knew he had been working hard to put it all together. And now, on top of everything else, she was disappointing him.
"Yeah, I am sorry. I am not in the right mind for play tonight. I wish I had a better statement, but I always promise honesty."
"What does that mean? Explain."
She wonders if she can explain. She's not even sure of her own understanding of what is going on. It was new but it wasn't. It had been... how long? She'd been going through this, in degrees, for quite some time.
She had been bouyed up and then crash-landed so many times she was not just a little surprised at how hard this was. Even more frustrating, she was giving it - giving him - power over her through her own, self-imposed emotional turmoil.
How do you tell someone this? How do you explain all of this to someone who is in an amazing relationship of his own and how can you think they can begin to understand? How do you admit, when you are strong and intelligent and vibrant, that you feel weak, vulnerable and dulled?
"I am in a bad mood, I am tired, I am heartbroken, I feel abandoned and abused by someone who was supposed to love me. I know it's not your issue, but it's mine and I won't be in the right headspace to be a good partner."
She wondered if he would consider this too dramatic. He doesn't like drama (who does? she wonders) and while this isn't dramatic or over the top, it's not his pain, it's not his experience, and it's not his problem.
He didn't make her wait long for a response. "And I told you I'd be there for you and this sounds like a perfect opportunity for us to build trust. I think you should still come over and we can modify my plan a bit. Sound okay?"
"I just don't think I can handle it. I am not trying to be an ass, and I hate breaking plans."
He persisted. "And do you think if you couldn't handle it and you fell apart on me - crying or whatever - that that's not a good thing? I mean, it's what we were after in the first place."
She realizes he has a point. She did tell her friend even before this that she needed a heavy session, she said she wanted to be broken. Not a "breaking" as much as some people like to define it - but a breaking of the built up toxicity, an exorcism of the emotional hell, a breakdown of the negative energy - to help her get through a particularly rough time. She likes physical pain (duh?)... and it sometimes helps her to process and focus and remove herself from a bad day.
She did ask if he could oblige her. And he did agree. Not that he wouldn't have his own focus and his own benefit, she was aware of that. It wasn't singularly about her. But she was fully aware of his concessions to her needs, her feelings, and her well-being.
She is taking too long to answer. He adds, "I will be there to catch you when you fall. ;)"
"I fell, and I fell hard." She is crying now, not that he can see it through the text.
"Well," he said, "let's put Humpty Dumpty back together again."
"I need to think," she says.
"I would like you to come over still but it's your final decision, okay?"
"I appreciate that. I'll think for a bit."
He wants to make her smile. "The bright side is I will get rapey with your ass! :)" She laughs to herself. He succeeds at making her smile. "Or you just sit in the padded comfy chair and we talk. :)"
She thinks about this for a while. She knows she needs to talk and connect. And they are building their trust.
She knows she needs to do this with him.
Later, she messages him. "I'd like to talk, just talk, for 2 reasons. 1. It will give you more insight, ammunition, ideas. It will reveal me and insecurities. 2. It will add to the trust. But, I understand if that's too much, too soon."
"But on my terms, okay?" he asks.
"Depends on the terms."
"We chat in the room," he says.
"So far so good."
"I will sit in the chair and you will be sitting elsewhere."
She waits for more and then says, "Please tell me what you have in mind."
"That's it... literally... thats it."
She ponders this and realizes it is exactly what she needs. Right here, right now. She is emotional but disconnected, and she needs to find her center again. She tells him, "I warn you: I will cry, I will feel like I'm dying."
"Good." He understands. "You're allowed to. It's safe there."
She pushes. "I don't do weak very well. I don't like to give in. One reason I like physical pain."
"Emotional pain needs to bleed out, too," he reminds her.
She sighs, both audibly and in a message to him. "True."
"I can joyfully provide both."
That night she goes to his house after wavering all day as to whether or not she should. She began wondering if a good visit with a bottle of vodka and a sappy movie or a game of online Scrabble was more her style.
She arrives promptly at seven o'clock and is greeted by his wife, a beautiful woman who shakes her hand, hugs her, and tells her she is welcome here, that all will be well here. They move into the kitchen and chat; a normal, unemotional, but no less important chat. They speak of work and the weather, cats, clothes and corporate ID badges. She is offered wine, water, or any other manner of beverage that suits her mood. She accepts the water with thanks.
He comes downstairs and the chat continues while the water and drinks are gathered up. The pleasantries are generalities, not to be belittled, and help to make her feel safe, comfortable, and remind her that the every day things, the little things she likes to champion and appreciate, are still important.
They go upstairs and, after she receives a hug from and is told to "have fun" by his wife, he leads her into the play room.
He moves his bondage chair to the middle of the room and, while doing so, tells her, "They don't light themselves."
She looks at him quizzically and he nods to the candles on the dresser. She grabs the torch and lights one, a fragranced one she thinks, and sets it down. "Don't be lazy," he says. She lights two or three more when he acknowledges that is enough.
He goes to sit in the chair and motions for her to sit on the floor. He is kind. He drops at her feet a pillow then tells her to sit. He asks her what is going on.
"What is your problem?"
She makes a half-hearted attempt to sit but his blunt question, while appropriate, felt like a punch in the stomach. She tries to explain and only becomes choked up. Tears form in her eyes and she loses her words. She can't look at him and she uses a hand gesture to show him that she needs a moment. She is still standing, though visibly weakened, slouched. She already feels like she is dying, falling, broken in her weakness and torn down in her esteem. And now, so bluntly, it is her problem? She stumbles a little in another attempt to move, but has no balance, no center.
He stands up and hugs her.
She cries.
"What happened?" he asks, softer, gentler. "A broken heart?"
She nods; she chokes out a quiet, "yes," and begins to sob. "A broken me."
"It's OK," he says, reassuring her, "you are safe here. It's OK."
He says that tonight's agenda is simple: to make sure she is better when leaves than when she arrived.
She holds him, crying into his chest, and he squeezes her a little. He holds her and lets her cry for a moment before suggesting a change of position. He sits in the chair and turns her around, facing away from him. He pulls her onto his lap and puts his chin on her shoulder. His arms around her waist, she rests her hands on his arms.
"So," he begins, "you gave your heart to someone you shouldn't have?"
She nods.
"And what happened," he asks.
"I don't fully know," she is almost whispering. "I mean, I do, but I don't. I love him. Loved him? But it's too hard. One minute we're amazing... and the next... I just wish I knew what to do. I can only be me, I know that. But I want - wanted - to be me with him."
She explained that she knew they weren't officially together after breaking up a two months ago, but they spent so much time, did so much... and that she failed to accept that it was nothing more than that. That he couldn't give her more than that. She was reminded, often, in the past months that she might be reading too much into it... but she was willing to take that chance if it meant continued sharing. She was in love and she wanted, more than anything, to save her connection to him.
"But you need to be you, with you. If that doesn't work for someone else you can't do it for them. And if they can't appreciate that, then you shouldn't want to do that for them." She's been told for months that you can't force someone to be with you, and that you have to find the respect for yourself and the other person to accept that. He is intimating the same thing.
She knows he is right, but... "I guess that's the most painful," she admits quietly. "I don't want anything more than to be me, be with him... no agenda, no plans for domesticity or marriage, no need for baubles and flowery events. Just be and enjoy and share and appreciate. That's it. It's simple, isn't it?"
"No," he says, hugging her a little tighter, "It should be, but it's not. And you shouldn't want that with someone who either doesn't want it or can't give it to you... or both."
She starts crying again, quiet, jagged, pained. He holds her tighter and tells her it's OK, that she needs to let it out. He tells her he understands and that it will be confusing, it will be hard. It will take a little time, but she is cared for, she is safe, and she is allowed to feel this. He tells her how he had to learn to make choices, too. How he had to understand that he needed to feel and say and appreciate things about himself and to fulfill his own needs and without the fear of hurting as long he was true to himself. It's definitely something that can be polarizing but at least, he continues to explain, it's what will work for him and his life and his relationships.
She can only nod.
Her legs are trembling and he notices. "Are you uncomfortable?" She shakes her head.
"No," she tells him. "I am fine." Physically, yes... but...
"But you aren't." They sit there for another moment and he has an idea. "I want to try something that always helps me," he says.
She nods.
"I know we said this wasn't a play date..." he trails off. They stand up and he has her remove her cardigan.
He steps away to his stocked toy racks and tells her to put her arms out. She complies. He slides on to her a heavy leather straight jacket and proceeds to buckle the back, neck, and leg straps. He buckles her arms across her body. When he is done, he asks if she is comfortable. She says she is. The weight of the jacket, the warmth, the security of its bindings... in it, she feels safe. Slightly nervous, yes - this wasn't on the agenda - but she trusts him and she knows he is thinking of her. He is sharing himself with this exercise, sharing with her some of his security.
He helps her on to the massage table and lays her down, face up. He moves the table, with her on it, and positions the chair at the end of the table near her head.
He sits in the chair behind her, his voice quiet in her ear, his arms resting on her chest. He tells her how he relishes this feeling, how he is calmed by the firm, comfortable hold. His hands sometimes press her body down against the table while he speaks of finding solace - sometimes for hours - in these very bindings. It's meditative, he explains, and better to him than wrapping up in blankets.
And he tells her she is safe.
She is.
He tells her she is a good girl.
She is.
He tells her she can cry here.
She does.
She doesn't like to cry. She holds it in, sobs wracking her body but not escaping her lips. Tears stream down her face and he uses tissue to catch them for her. She cries over what was lost and what she never truly had. He explains that people have to do this, go through this, and that he is not a stranger to this pain. She says she is sad because she wants so much good for this person. He reminds her that she can only manage herself and find good for her. She fell in love for a reason, she explains, she cannot just turn it off. He says he understands, he says that no one can, and he continues to wipe away her tears.
She feels like her heart is physically breaking as she speaks of coming out of her shell with and, to a degree, for this person. How she holds romance at arms-length, or did until she met them... and how she will have to once again. She chokes over words like love, connection, commitment and value - not because they never existed but because they now feel so far out of reach.
She recognizes and celebrates the good times, too: travel and events and laughter, quiet nights and nights on the town, beautiful words and gestures said and performed for her benefit, to make her feel beautiful, to make her smile.
She does not vilify anyone. In fact, she speaks of wishing them happiness, good things. There is no ill will in the pain, no bad wishes. She is sad, yes, but she speaks only of wanting the best, hoping she was part of goodness and laughter and love, if only for a little whiles. She wishes for respect, civility, friendship. She wishes, more than anything, for friendship.
She does question things. Why, if she is so amazing, could they not be with her? Why, if she was so beautiful, so intelligent, so lovable, was she so unloved by the one person who told her she could never be unloved?
How could she be such a great person and be pushed so far away, so fast, so hard? How could someone tell her so often that she was everything a person should be, and then use words meant to destroy her and her heart, her soul?
He is listening to her, touching her, comforting her. He says he understands and repeats that she will find the good parts again.
He shares with her a story about how a few words can cause someone the equivalent of excruciating physical pain. He had hurt someone with words, unintentionally, and was given an intensely physical - literally damaging - example of how it made that person feel. Words can hurt just as bad as anything and, in fact, are harder to overcome than situational, immediate physical pain. Words can lift us up, but they can also tear us down. He said he was almost flippant with what he said to her, and what he learned was that malice need not be the intent to cause the pain that he did. The next day, after being left - again, literally - in a bleeding, crumpled state, he was presented with love words, with flowers, and true connective emotion meant to convey, communicate, and educate him on the importance of respect needed in a relationship.
He is telling her of his own mistake, his own learning experience, and she realizes that words are all she has.
She has love words, respect words, and misunderstood words. She has confused words and sad words.
She has made mistakes, sure, but her intent was always good. She wants the best, she wants to help, she wants to make people in her life feel amazing and important and loved. But he reminds her that intent is not always explicit; he didn't intend to hurt his Mistress, but he cut her to the core. He tells her she may not have meant to hurt anyone either, but sometimes even the best words can bring forth pain.
Which makes her cry harder.
And a sob escapes.
"Good girl."
She cries harder.
"Good girl. Let it out. Cry." She realized that it is a command.
She does.
He moves away for a moment. "I want to do something else for you," he says, and returns to strap her to the table. Heavy leather straps go across her pelvis and her stomach. She is firmly bound, but not uncomfortable.
He asks if she is OK. She says she is. In fact, with the jacket and the bindings, she says she feels... cocooned.
To herself she says she feels shrouded.
More than that: armored. Armored against her pain and insecurity, armored against her fears.
Strapped in and strapped down, all she can do is cry. He leans over her, holding her, pressing his hands and his body against her, his forehead to hers. He speaks softly and tells her it is OK to feel it, let it out, and leave it here. She continues to cry, her body trembling, and he tells her to breathe. He stands again and tells her again to cry. He uses his hands to apply pressure over various spots on her body, pressing her down or squeezing, all the while telling her to cry.
Then he asks her why she is crying.
She says she hurts and he asks why. She is a little taken aback by that. What have they been talking about all this time?
She says she lost and feels lost, that she gave and didn't have, that she wanted to be everything...
"... to someone who is, at least now, giving you nothing." He finishes for her.
She says she feels like she failed and that, more than anything, she is sad that she is losing a friend. She cries even harder and, for two or three minutes, sobs, shakes, and soaks herself in tears. And through all of this, he stands close. He is there to wipe her eyes, remind her to breathe, and support her. He is there to make her safe, give her back some of the humanity she feels she lost.
He tells her that she is important. He tells her that good times are good times, and those still happened and that all the bad stuff cannot take that away from her. That she was, at some point, in love, loved in return, and felt loved and buoyed; that she was important to someone else. She still is important, he tells her, to others. He says that one person not loving her anymore doesn't change that. That cannot be taken away, he tells her, any more than this pain can be taken from you now. They are both important and they are both yours.
And then she feels, again, like she is punched in the stomach when he says, "I don't need you."
She is confused and this declaration makes her hold her breath. Didn't he just call her important?
"I don't need you," he repeats. "I have an amazing, hot, intelligent wife and an amazing relationship."
She nods, not sure how else to respond, still waiting to breathe.
"I don't need you," he says again, "but I do care about you. I care that you are comfortable, I care that you are well. I care that you are trusting me and that you feel trusted. I care that we get you through this, to a place where you aren't living in this but dealing with this. I care that you are here and I care that you are safe. I have known you for such a short time, far less than he did, and I care that you are in this room and giving this to me so I can give you safety and solace."
She is crying hard again, but silently. Holding it in again, barely breathing, her body is trembling from the contained sobs. The tears are large and heavy, flowing unfettered, uncontrolled. He uses tissue to wipe them away and, still holding the tissue, applies pressure to her face; his large hands almost a mask, firmly but gently covering her entire face, holding her for a moment. She cries beneath his hands, warmed and a little defeated by this posture, unsure of her comfort but willing to test it. She knows she is safe, and she holds on to that in this moment.
He moves away and drops the tissue to the floor. He says he wants to try something. He is speaking softly, gently. It is something he enjoys, he explains, an addition to the security he feels in the jacket and the bindings. When he returns, he tells her to close her eyes. She does and he helps her lift her head as he places a close-fitting mask over her face. He asks if she is OK and she nods. He begins to work on the bindings and adjust it. He repeats his question and she nods again. He finishes with the bindings and uses his hands to hold the mask to her face.
She breathes, slowly, in and out.
She thinks of the week before and reminds herself of the hood; she did so well with the hood. She remembered feeling comfortable in it. She remembered being able to breathe.
She breathes, slowly, in and out.
And then she panics. It's too close, it's too tight. She's afraid she can't breathe and she's afraid she can't get out. While she wanted to use the hood memory as a basis for controlling her fear, her arms were not bound before. She had some movement, some leeway. Tonight, she is completely immobile, no freedom, no movement, no leeway. She begins to breathe fast and starts shaking her head. He is trying to talk to her and she cannot process it. She feels stifled and scared and so she shakes her head harder.
"What's going on?" he asks her. She shakes her head again. "Do you want out of it?" He is already working at undoing the bindings. She tries to say yes, she hopes he can hear her. She nods even after he begins to take the mask off of her. He is done quickly and she gasps as if she were drowning. She cries again, but for herself, her fear. She closes her eyes and feels the air on her skin. He is using a tissue at her eyes and she feels comforted, safe by him, his touch.
She breathes, slowly, in and out. And she continues to cry.
He leaves her briefly to put the mask away. He comes back and lays his body down over hers, letting his weight rest along the length of her body, his arms above her shoulders, his hands cradling her head. He uses his legs to squeeze her legs and hips. He holds her and he tells her he understands, that she is better than what she has been through. He tells her that he cares.
She is comforted by his weight, his warmth. They stay here, quiet, for what seems a long while but probably only spans two or three minutes. She is still crying, but it is softer now. She is breathing again.
And then, in her ear, softly, he asks her who owns her.
She replies that she does.
"Good girl."
There is another pause and they continue to lay together for a minute or two.
She cries a little less.
"Do you know that you are important?"
She nods. He stays on her, squeezing around her, gently but firmly pushing her into the table.
"Good girl."
"Who can take that from you?" he inquires.
She tells him no one can. The tears slow down even more and he places his hands on her face, the improvised mask.
"Good girl."
He holds her like this, still laying on top of her, sometimes shifting his legs to squeeze her, squeezing her shoulders and her head, for a few more minutes. He talks to her. He is able to make her smile, make her laugh, and remind her to breathe.
He gets up and stands over her for a moment. Looking down at her, his hands pressing against her, pushing her down into the table. He does this for a minute before pausing.
And then he hits her breast.
She gasps a little. That was completely unexpected and she looks at him, silently, questioning.
He does it again. And again.
He hits her stomach and her legs. Thumping, not slapping. He grabs the bindings of the jacket that loop through her legs. He pulls up, creating pressure. It is not painful, but it is hard. He squeezes her breasts again and asks if he has her nipple through the leather. She bites her lip and says he does. He squeezes hard, pinching her. This time, it hurt. He sees this and keeps going. He pinches harder and she cries out. He does this for a few moments, thumping her body under the leather and squeezing her breasts. He places his hand over her face and applies pressure. He pulls on the bindings and pushes her into the table. Sometimes it is just pressure, sometimes it is painful.
And then he stops. "I am going to help you up. Tell me if you are dizzy or have any problems." She says she will. He helps her sit up on the table and holds her, a hug and supportive stance all at once. He gives her water and then helps her swing her legs to the side of the table and stand. He hugs her again and tells her she can do this.
Then he spins her around quickly and pushes her face down on the table. He begins to undo the bindings and he leans forward to tell her, "If this jacket hits the ground, you will not like what I do to you." She immediately grasps what she can of the leather in her fingers from inside the sleeves. She keeps her body flat against the table, holding the jacket. She does not want to disappoint him. He leans against her ass, pushing her into the table. He doesn't say anything, but finishes the bindings and holds her there.
He helps her stand and, from behind her, pushes the jacket off her arms and on to the table. She is careful, and pushes the jacket up on to the table so that it will not fall. He helps her up, hands on her arms.
She is standing now, having been turned to face him, and he tells her he is going to "violate all sorts of rules."
She is concerned. She is aware of the rules and is keenly aware of any action that might be construed as a violation that would ultimately end all of this. She doesn't want it to end. She has placed trust in him, trust in herself, and values the openness, frankness, of their friendship and arrangement. It will only be comfortable if the rules are respected, followed. She likes rules - agreed boundaries - and is a stickler for established rules. She is already processing comments to make regarding her respect for the rules. She over-thinking, she suspects, but given everything else going on right now, she isn't sure if she is being silly or safe by doing so.
He sees her contemplating and he asks if she remembers their conversation from the night they met. She asks him which part.
He doesn't answer. Instead he asks if she feels safe and she says she does. He asks if she trusts him and she says she does.
He drops to his knees, his hands at her hips, and looks up at her. She gasps. He puts his chin against the bottom of her ribcage and asks, "Do you know why I am doing this?"
She shakes her head.
"Our conversation was about Tops being nothing without their bottoms. The bottom has the control. If someone doesn't submit or give of themselves, what does the Top have? Respect goes both ways," he says. "When it doesn't, then the relationship goes south."
She nods.
"I am doing this because you are important. You have put yourself in a position to earn respect, demand it, because you are giving that trust and respect to me." He repeats that he doesn't need her, but she is important. She feels the tears in her eyes again.
"Has anyone ever done this for you before?" he asks, still looking up at her.
"No," she replies softly.
He hugs her.
He holds her.
She cries.
He reaches up and squeezes her breast, hard, and she cries out.
"Who owns you?" he asks her again.
"I do," she responds through clenched teeth.
He stands up, still squeezing her, and then reaches into her dress to expose her breasts. "Make them accessible," he commands as he takes a step back. She does as she is told. He grabs both nipples and pinches them hard. She starts to cry out and he tells her to stop, to be more quiet. She tries to breathe and he comments on it. "Exactly, breathe through it. Breathe."
She tries to breathe and he squeezes harder. Auuuuugh! She tries not to cry out, but in doing so has stopped breathing again.
"Breathe!" he tells her firmly. "Breathe through it. Don't you dare call 'yellow' to me. Breathe..." He keeps squeezing and begins pulling, too. Her nipples are already more sensitive than most. She is in pain like she has never felt on her breasts before, and she is fighting against calling out. "Breathe," he says again, "do not 'yellow' me." She only nods.
"You own you," he says. She nods. She breathes.
She wants to cry out, scream, plead, fall to her knees. She grabs the edge of the massage table against which she is leaning. She is up on her toes, clenching her teeth, practically biting her tongue, and now tears are forming for a different reason.
He pauses for a moment.
And she breathes.
"Good girl."
Then, with a mischievous look, he asks if she wants to get taller. Quizzically she looks at him and he grabs her again. Pushing against her, pulling her, squeezing and pinching harder than ever. She cries out, she can't be quiet. She keeps breathing and he commends her. He does not stop. He is pulling her breasts up, by her nipples, and she feels like he will pull them off. She is at once aroused and in so much pain she can see lighted dots in her vision. She is crying out but she does not ask to stop. He lets her vocalize her pain because she is breathing, he can see that, and he tells her that's what he wants. She breathes in, and cries out, breathes in, and almost screams. It gets harder and harder to stand, she cannot get any higher on her toes, and she feels like she will fall.
He stops.
She breathes.
"Good girl."
He puts his hands on either side of her face. He doesn't say anything, just leans his forehead against hers. He stands like this for a minute or two. Quietly, just breathing. He tells her to fix her clothes and once she has, he hugs her. He holds her for a moment, again in silence.
He tells her to put her sweater back on and, as she is, motions to the tissues he has dropped to the floor and tells her they were not there when they came in. She picks them up and grabs others from the dresser.
He has her hold the hanger as he hangs the straight jacket back up and then he puts the furniture where it belongs. The candles are blown out.
He turns to her. "Leave it all here," he says. "Don't carry it out of here, don't take it with you. Easier said than done, I know this, but I am asking you to leave it here. It's safe here. You are safe here."
They walk out of the play room and head downstairs. She disposes of the tissues, deposits her water glass on the kitchen counter, and gathers her things. He walks her to the door.
"How are you feeling?" he asks, looking concerned. He hugs her.
"Better than when I arrived," she says, smiling.
"Good girl."
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