Marking Time

Yesterday evening was a whirlwind. Getting a haircut was top of my priorities. I was very excited about this haircut, and it lived up to expectations. Of course, before I went for the haircut I had to go back home to pick up the green leather which I had not known to pick up when I had gone home at lunch to grab my overnight bag. So I rushed home, got the goods, and rushed out to get to the salon. Got there with ten minutes to spare, so all was going well, or so I thought.

Except the hairdresser was running late. So I drank a glass of wine and various fruit juices and got two free treatments for my hair as compensation, so I wasn't too irritated, but I did know I had another appointment to keep, so I was a little bit tense about the time. This was only slightly aggravated by watching said hairdresser start chopping at my head. I know how my hair shrinks, so I was very nervous watching those scissors get fairly close to my scalp, but really, it's a very good haircut, so all that tension was for nothing. Of course, after my hour and a half appointment, it was 9pm and I had to be at the warehouse for 10. Shit.

Hustling myself along to Liverpool Station, I made a snap decision on the fastest way to get to Vauxhall. I got the Central line for one stop, hopped the Northern line to Stockwell, and planned on taking the Victoria line back one stop to Vauxhall. Now, it was all going to plan, and as I waited for my northbound Victoria line train, I calculated I should arrive at Vauxhall just at 9:40 which, if the buses were friendly, should get me to the warehouse just on time. So when the train came and I hopped on, I was feeling restless, but secure. Until the doors closed and I looked at the route listed in black and realized I'd gotten on a northbound Northern line train. Fuck me. So I got out of the station at Oval thinking I would just catch a taxi. Think again. Three stoplights later and I was back onto the tube, going back to Vauxhall, to catch a taxi there. Thankfully I saw someone getting out of a taxi at Vauxhall, because otherwise, I didn't see a single one. I ended up arriving at the warehouse fifteen minutes late. I hate being late. Not to mention the tension that was there already after the days email discretions. Shit shit shit!

As instructed, I hustled up the fire escape and through the door, making sure it was shut behind me, then through the building to the internal stairs, and up to the loft where it was all very dark. Through the first set of doors I went straight into the bathroom to try and catch my breath, check out my hair, and prepare. Oh, and I had to pee like a racehorse. So I tried to slow my breathing and stripped down, washed up a bit, took my green leather out of my bag and put it on. I folded all my clothes and stacked them on my bag, taking that and my shoes back out of the bathroom with me as I turned off the light and found myself in blackness again. The only light came from way down in the loft, the television was on and perhaps I could just make out the top of Mr.Aloofs head on the sofa in front of it. Before that however, I saw a mat laid out with a ring of rope upon it, directly under the first beam.

Not leaving myself time to think about anything, I quietly padded over to the mat, and stepped into the ring facing away from the window, from the television, from the sofa, and back towards the door I came in through. And I closed my eyes. Luckily, he didn't make me wait so terribly long before I heard the movie go off and music go on. It's hard to stand in the middle of a room, naked, listening, wary, without fidgeting. My hand flexed for the five minutes or so I waited.

I was wary of course, because the last communique I'd gotten had said, "Having stepped just a little too far over the line of what I consider an acceptable degree of emailing of offensive photos...........it might be better if you don't present yourself. Because otherwise.........you will be hurting in the morning.........." Oops. Me? Cross the line? Er...... uh-oh. *smirk*

So there I was, trying not to fidget, waiting, waiting, waiting. When a hand gently touched my shoulder, my back, and suddenly I was embraced from behind- gently, slowly, snugly. I could feel the roughness of his clothes on my goose-pimpled skin, I felt his hair brush my shoulder softly, I could smell it's clean scent. No words were spoken. I didn't open my eyes and that was quickly not an option as a blindfold was knotted neatly and firmly in place.

For some time he toyed with me this way. Only gentle touches, caresses, embraces, kisses. He would come to me, and then leave me. Sometimes approaching from behind, sometimes from in front. Sometimes I could hear as he changed the CD, went to the kitchen, drank something. During this time of comings and goings my left wrist was pulled away, a rope threaded through the cuff and over the rafter, but my hand was placed back at my side. And then the right. And so the anticipation built. Then, eventually, the ropes were pulled and tightened until I had little room to shift. The keys, our agreed upon signal for when I had enough were pressed into my left hand, and I slipped the ring around my finger, knowing that even when the keys were dropped there would be more to endure. And still he toyed with me using softness. Heightening the anticipation of what I knew was to come. Kissing, hands and fingers roaming, but staying well away from the wetness that betrayed my fear, and only serving to heighten a different sort of anticipation.

But the niceties had to end. Even though I knew it had to happen, it was sudden and without warning when the whip slammed into my ass. There was not to be a warm up it seemed which was quickly brought home by him wrapping the strikes so they peppered me from knee to ribs, not neglecting the particularly sensitive region in the middle which made me twist and try to jump away to no avail. The strokes rained down bringing a warmth and tingle to my skin. And then they stopped. And he was softly beside me again, and now I leaned into him, trembling, skin warming, as he ran his hands over welts then again stepped away. This pattern continued a number of times, certain areas on my hips now slightly stinging. I yelped and leaned away on particularly hard hits, I needed his support more during the time in between.

Then, in the middle of this pattern, a change, not the multitude of snapping teeth or the thudding mass of the whip, but a single burning mark and a loud snapping crack. This was new. This was different. This was intense. I could not stand still from either the searing impact or the sudden sound. And when he hit the same spot twice, I moved the keys from my pointer finger to my thumb, toying with them. And then respite. And then again alternating between the whip and the mystery item. Perhaps it was three or maybe four periods with this new brand when I flung the keys which had now moved to simply being held in my hand as far away as possible. A pause perhaps, a small acknowledgement, and then, continuation.

Pain which overrides other thoughts, except perhaps a reminder to breathe, to try not to tense, to try not to strain so hard on my wrists and arms. And respite, again. And this time as he lightly ran his fingers over new and angry welts and I sagged towards him, and he held my weight firm against his body, then did he reach for the wetness, that still through the pain betrayed the conflict and the need. And of course the body responds, and so he held me while I trembled against him, crying out for a different reason. And when he knew that I could stand again, he set me down and again the strokes rained down. Now the pain mixing with the after-glow of pleasure. Still twisting, still moving against the bonds, but somehow easier. The next respite was more of the same and then the sensation of warm soapy water rushing over heated skin and hands slipping after. The whip on wet skin blowing coldly before leaving it's burning marks. They mysterious item leaving final brands on skin already sore. Then silence. Then slack. And I flexed my fingers to make the blood return faster, favoring one leg, as standing on the other renewed the inflamed skin.

Then arms, guiding me down, to the floor, to the mat, to lay upon it. Luckily most sore spots seemed to be on hips and sides. Cradling me there, one hand intertwined in mine, he touched me again, and again, and again. Perhaps intrigued by my then sensitive responses. There was no counting or distinction of pleasure, it was constant, continuous, intense. Until I was squirming away from his persistent touch instead of towards. And he would let me rest a moment, and begin again until I was exhausted. The bath that had been running was turned off and he said softly to me 'lets take a bath' and I heard him move away as I slowly removed my leather, and finally the blindfold to see him checking on me and stepping into the tub.

I got up less stiffly than I would have thought and came to the edge, splashing water on him, running my hands on his now naked form. 'Come in.', he said. And I looked at him and felt the warmth of the water and said I thought I was afraid of it. 'It will be fine, come in.' And so I slipped into the bath, and the water didn't sting as I thought, and I settled back between his legs, on his chest and he wrapped his arms around me and lay there like that for some time, soaking.

The rest is more routine. Out of the bath. Dry off with towels, though I was careful to gently pat and not rub anywhere. Some juice to drink and off to bed, where we entangled ourselves again and had some mindless talk of nothing and twitching of toes to the music until I realized I had just woken up from obviously sleeping for a while. And that was all there was. No sex. Though I did not feel as much the lack of it as the time before, I can't say that it doesn't confuse me, but I'm not really complaining. And in the morning more cuddles, some breakfast, a look in the mirror at the devastation of my skin. A hideous train ride to work.

Two nights and I am on the plane. I don't understand myself and why I make the choices I make sometimes. But I also don't regret.