Sub-lift

If you had seen him today - if you had seen us today - if you had seen how he touched me and kissed me and oh, how he looked at me - you would never have guessed that he is a certifiable sexual sadist. Unless, of course, you had torn your eyes away from the scene before you and surveyed the implements arrayed on the pale, oversized wooden coffee table from IKEA.

The hardware store length of chain.
The long, jagged-end strip of cherry wood.
The plain wooden spoon.
The blue and brown flogger.

He didn't lay a hand on any of them.

He touched me as if I were the most beautiful creature in the world, his angel, his treasure that he had found and snared. He looked at me with his tender Daddy eyes, while touching me in ways a daddy should never touch his baby girl. And he kissed me...

There are no words for his kisses.

He took me to that place.
That special place.

Normally he looks in my eyes and knows I am not quite there and then takes my left nipple in his right thumb and forefinger and pinches and twists just enough to take me to the top. My nipple is the knob that he adjusts until I am tuned to the station he seeks. And I give him my eyes and he sees deep inside and says "Yes?"

This time he taught me something new. He brought me there with tenderness. With sweet sensual touches. With feeling my body close to his. With the joy of my hand fondling his cock as I knelt before him down on my haunches or up on my knees so he could see my face which he says is beautiful and then could accept the offer of my sweet, warm, giving mouth.

"Do you see?" he said. "I took you there without any pain at all."

He took me there and I never left.

I am still in that place.

He has taken to calling it sub-lift.

Even if you've never heard of sub drop, I'm sure you can pretty rapidly and instinctively figure out what it means. I'm lucky in that I've rarely experienced it, and even then it is more likely the result of a hormone storm. It's when you've been feeling Oh So Wonderful from whatever it is when you are together, and then a few hours later you crash. The drug wears off. The power goes out and in 2 seconds the temperature drops by 60 degrees.

That doesn't usually happen to me.
Even though there is little to no what is usually referred to as aftercare.

Although these days it is different.

He used to just pull his clothes on, perhaps say a word or two, and leave me where I lay or where he ordered me, suddenly alone, in an empty room in any empty house. And almost always that was all right. I was so full of what had been, so full of where I'd been, that it was all right. I'd lie there and swim in it, or give myself to the emotions of the pain and the fright, and I would be all right.

Or I'd have to hop up and put away the tell-tale implements before erasing my nakedness and racing back to the office, always at least 15 minutes late after a mere half hour together. I'd stash away my emotions and hope that nothing showed. The difficulty wasn't so much that he didn't stay with me. Rather, it was not having time to digest it all.

The handful of bad times are more deserving to be called crashes rather than sub drop. They were times when I Reacted Badly. When I Couldn't Handle It."

When he miscalculated.
When he lost control.
When something went wrong.
When it took me days to recover.
To come back.

Eventually, I always did.
But without help.

Should he have helped?
Perhaps.
But maybe not.

He doesn't want to push me into anything. To drag me into anything. To lure me into accepting and understanding what he does and has done. To making me yield to his will.

He wants me to offer myself.
He values that so much more than yielding.
One yields to force.
One offers willingly.

He never explained the reason for the thing he did that horrified me away over 2 years ago. He could have kept me if he'd explained. But he didn't want to keep me that way. After a month apart he came back for me, and after 2 years I suddenly understood what he had done. Why he had done it. The kindness and risk for him that lay behind that voice mail of his slave's appalling screams of pain. It was a warning. This is the danger, it said. You don't want this, it said.

It took me 2 years to understand.
Clarity arrived in an instant.
And then
all I felt
was love.

And in full consciousness, I confirmed my commitment.

I've wandered from the point.

Sub-lift.
The opposite of sub drop.

It's not flying.
I don't think I actually fly.
Not, at least, as I've seen it defined in those books you have to study if you're majoring in BDSM.

I don't lose myself when I'm with the sadist. In fact, he won't let me. How can I serve him, how can I focus on remembering to do all those things he loves me to do, all those things designed to maximize his pleasure, if I'm floating away? I remember how hard he'd work at training me to keep my attention on my job. That first time he slapped my face, and the other times... he seemed to slap me so hard and yet he never left any bruises. Once he took me over his knee and spanked me, hard, not for that long but hard, to remind me not to float away.

I've learned.

Mostly.

But he isn't so harsh now.

So.
I don't fly.
I float.
I go to that place, yet still manage (mostly) to keep my mind on the job and send him into a state of unimaginable pleasure.

I float.
He leaves and I float.
For hours.
For days.

I am thrown open, expansive, as if all the cells in my body have moved apart and his very essence is filling all the spaces in between. I am in some sort of pantheistic ecstasy, in which I am everywhere, he is everywhere, God is everywhere, everything is one large commingled beautiful universe of love and nature and stars and sweet breezes caressing my creamy breast as it shines in the light from the high, north-facing window except that it's his own hand caressing my breast and then spanking my creamy baby bottom as it, too, shines in the light of that north-facing window. And now the cream exhibits just a blush of pink.

And I am his treasure.
And I am his angel.
And I've offered him my life.
I've offered him my soul.
My pleasure comes from pleasing him.
I swear an oath to live to please him.
Not because he asks for it.
But because I must.
Because I do.

I rest my head against his belly in the afterglow of his orgasm and he caresses my shoulder and nothing - nothing - could be more perfect than that moment.

And after a while he is gone.
And yet he remains.
I feel him.
Around me.
In me.
Touching me.
Filling me.
Saturating me.

It's been hours and I'm still floating in a state of perfect peace.

And he writes:

If we could only bottle your sub-lift.

I was very pleased with you (and by you) today.

Good girl

I love you, Daddy.