a scrapbook of memories

this is our journal.

this is our memory book.

all those moments, fleeting and lingering.

dashing up to the bus station, right behind your bus.

your pleasure at seeing me with the pink dog collar around my neck - and the leash in the car. you hooked it into the O-ring and held on to your pet as i drove you home.

that first dinner i fed you, the cup of tea that pleased you, and all the dinners we planned together and the cups of tea i served you. every meal felt like a joint project, even with me doing all the work.

that first spanking. i so needed that first spanking.

dragging myself away from you on Friday morning, dragging myself away for a half day's work while you lounged among the disastrous sheets. how i would reassemble the bed, my bed, our bed, every day at least once, and how you would leave it looking like it was waiting for the chambermaid to gather up the crumbled sheets and haul them off to the laundry.

doing your laundry. washing your dishes. feeling it as a gift, an offering, a pleasure, rather than an onerous chore. (though i must admit i have doubts as to how long i would remain amused at the master's socks and underwear dropped on the bedroom floor exactly where he removed them...)

Friday afternoon at the regional park. at the butterfly exhibit. were you wondering if it would be worth it? we gloried in it, handing the camera back and forth, snapping dozens of amazing photos. walking down the paths, among the geese, peering at labels for plants and trees, sharing benches, planning a return visit with pinhole cameras. feeling peaceful, feeling together, our ritual comments of dominance and submission woven among happy companionship that was too comfortable to be called "merely" vanilla. even without the spicy teasing flecks of other flavours, it was vanilla made from precious natural beans, its richness dissolving in our mouths and flowing through our bodies. there is, in truth, nothing necessarily boring about vanilla.

the plans, the hints, the insinuations about the punishments to come on Saturday night.

all those little times my almost-ex housemate nearly caught us at very inopportune moments. the worst being when the toys and implements of pain were all laid out in the basement family room cum dungeon and she came trotting into the house looking for a lost debit card. she was not expected back for the rest of the night. even if one is not planning some perhaps shocking activities, how explicit does one have to be in reiterating again and again that she really doesn't want to be around that night - especially when she had told us she'd be gone until the following day. (luckily, the implements had been laid out on a bandanna and were easily gathered up and obscured.)

it was all pretty funny, really. and she would have deserved the site of me draped over the ottoman, my naked ass being soundly beaten by your belt.

the delight you got in my little eruptions-on-command. your goal, of course, is orgasms on command. isn't that what every dom wants? three-two-one-CUM, KITTEN! well, not quite... but something for sure. like a little seizure, almost, and eventually you couldn't even make it past "three" before i would give this little involuntary full-body shiver, the sort i used to get only from certain kinds of music. you kept making me perform - loving to see how dependable my reaction was.

doing crossword puzzles together, my intuition supplementing your logic, after which you would figure out why my answer was correct. experiencing it as a shared activity rather than competition. (another reason for you to send those thank you flowers to ex-hubby #2...)

i learned that it definitely helps to breathe when giving a blow job.

this is becoming too long. but we had 4 nights together! i'm trying to save them, pinning them down on the page like captured butterflies when they are so much more beautiful flying around our heads.

you wish you could post the face shots that show me deep in subspace. not quite completely gone, but definitely not all there. i sink so fast now... in these four and a half months apart, you have continued to train me with threats and scenarios, till a few words about branding leave me without the ability to speak.

i wish i could post pictures of you after i cut your hair. poor you, enduring my constant little corrective snips for almost 2 days afterwards, as i attempted to make it perfect. you have beautiful hair, thick and wavy like mine, a red slightly browner than mine, cutting off the overgrown locks brings your face out, brings your good looks out, makes me worry a bit that now you are too handsome and young-looking to want someone as old as me.

i exercised today. we both have bellies. i will demolish mine.

the caning.
you stopped at 4 strokes.
they seemed to be enough.
they were.
4 strokes.
splat across my ass.
horribly painful parallel lines.
i wasn't bound, just down on my knees,
ass in air, face to the carpet,
you said i rose up under the pain as if
trying to escape it.
i couldn't escape it.
and after the fourth, you got your wish.
i sobbed. i shook.
and my face was
wet with tears.
just 4 strokes of the cane.
the worst i'd ever had.
you beat me till i cried tears.

(oddly enough, there are no horrible bruises, although it does still hurt, and yesterday we could feel the line of the welt under my skin. one bruise is forming at the site of the worst stroke. swift application of that big bag of peas that clutters up my freezer did its magic. frozen peas. perfect for sprained ankles and caned asses.)

i'll write another time about the beautiful little purple butt plug you bought me. the magic power of that little purple butt plug.

Sunday night.

the last night.

i showed you Marianne's post about what i call hormone storms. i wanted you to see that it's not just me. i wanted you to see the comment i left. you make me feel that it's safe to show you these things.

Sunday night. how gentle you were. i needed to be touched. i needed you to be my lover. you make me feel safe. you make me feel it's safe to ask for what i need. which isn't something i could do with other men. or women. which isn't something i do easily. i did it with you. i let you know what i needed. and you gave it to me.

i admit it. i was sad all morning. i didn't quite cry. you had told me not to. "don't cry, kitten..." you said as i left you at the bus station. "don't, cry..." in that inflection you always use, almost mocking yourself and me. so i didn't. and i'm ok now, sitting up naked in the bed, the sheets returned to their orderly state, tucked in at the bottom, your underwear in the dryer with my missing black shirt that had been skulking among my exercise clothes.

i won't cry, master.

i won't cry.

i think about the weekend and smile.

i remember, and smile, and pet purring marko, who has resumed his place on the bed now that you are gone.