Sometimes things just don't work quite right.
It's not that he did anything awful. He spanked me but not all that badly, nipple torture no worse than usual, a little bit of breath play but he's done worse. The beast was there but he really wasn't all that fearsome. Really, in many ways it was still a lot more sex than sadism, as it has been for weeks now.
But I didn't come into it from a good place. I wasn't mentally ready. And when it was over, I crashed. Aftercare would have been a very nice thing, but even just not having to run back to work would have helped.
I'm tired of the half hour lunchtime sessions where I dash home from the office, get ready, go into this very intense space, then remove the evidence, pull my clothes back on, stuff some food in my mouth (if I didn't eat in the car coming home or driving back), and then be back at my desk hopefully no more than 10 minutes late. Usually I'm happy, floating, feeling owned and treasured, proud at having pleased my Master, perhaps (as last time) exhausted after having channeled his orgasm. But basically at peace, even if sometimes sitting a little gingerly.
But this time, the rhythm was off.
Between his work schedule and my lunch hour limits, we have to time his visits precisely. Either he tells me when he will be there, and I arrive a good 5 minutes ahead to prepare, or he updates me with text messages as to whether that time will hold or he will be late. One way or another, I spend the morning in squirming anticipation, that lovely touch of fear as to whether I can time it right. I switch the phones to the answering service early, to be sure I'm not tied up on a call and unable to leave on time. I worry about unexpected slow pokes or badly timed lights on the mile and a half drive home (Yes, you're allowed to drool over my commute).
I dash into the house, pulling closed the vertical blinds over half the front picture window (the blinds on the other side are broken). I take certain items to the basement dungeon, make sure the window is closed, then run back upstairs to strip down and pee. And then pee maybe 3 more times out of nervousness. I wait in the living room, a robe covering my nakedness, watching for his car, eying my phone for last minute orders. When he pulls up in front of the house, I slip off the robe, put down the phone, open the door, and stand naked behind it so as not to embarrass my good Catholic neighbors across the street. And during all this time, I am sinking into a state of pure submission, so that I am ready when he arrives, ready in my mind, ready in my body, returned to that world, my real world, where nothing exists but my Master and his power over me.
This time, he gave me his target time and ordered me to monitor my phone. And then he never texted or sent an e-mail. The time to leave approached and passed. I was sending e-mails and hearing nothing back. Finally, I sent a message that I was going home one way or another and would be ready by 1:15 should he be there.
Partway home came a text asking if I was in the house. I replied that I was on my way.
His car was outside when I arrived. I dashed into the house and got ready in record time, thoroughly stressed out, worrying that he'd be angry. There wasn't much to be done as far as preparing and I took everything down as we went. It's a good thing, though, that the next door neighbors were out, because the dungeon window got left open and I did scream and cry as he spanked me.
So yes, he spanked me until my bottom was beautifully pink and hot - not for being late, but for other things. Things I'd been forgetting. One had to do with a regular task that I have been neglecting. The other had mainly to do with how I performed this afternoon. My mind wasn't behaving right, I didn't give him the gifts of my mind for which he owns me.
He has scolded me before. He has spanked me before. Spanking is good for me, and scolding, too, in a way. I need the direction, I appreciate the discipline, it makes me feel secure. But I think the stress of the preceding hour threw me, and after he left I found myself feeling empty. It was one of the few times that aftercare would have made a big difference.
His scoldings were done in a very supportive way. Really. He talked about what a beautiful creature I am, and he really means it. I know he means it and admit to still struggling to accept that. But he does make me feel beautiful. And I know he values me. He also knows what I can deliver, and he wants my best from me. Which is only fair.
And while he refuses to use the word "fault" with respect to his actions, he did - with what exact wording I can't quite remember - take responsibility for the communications problem. At the very end, as he was dressing to go, he did take responsibility for it. And that, at least, was a relief.
I could have done without aftercare if there had been no need to run off. If I could have cried and fallen asleep and soothed myself and re-assembled myself... it's been a very long time since we spent more than a half hour together. It's convenient that we can meet this way, and probably means we get together more often. But between the short sessions and no recovery time, there is always, ultimately, something lacking.
(I just had a brief, snide message from him, which made me both laugh and snap. I admit there are times that I wish he were other than he is. But then, I think he wouldn't be so compelling. He is who he is, and I've never known anyone like him. he is extraordinary and he is my Master and I am grateful to be his. Still and all, sometimes it can be very hard...)
I'm exhausted. This day took a lot out of me. I need to curl up and cry and sleep. Anyone who wants to come over and hold me and stroke my hair is most welcome. I'll leave the door open. Please ignore all the cat hair on the Afghan rug, which is supposed to be deep reds and blues, not tabby cat grey. I probably should be spanked for that, too.