Special.
Very special.
And secret.
Which is the wrong word.
Private.
That's the right word.
More and more I've been wanting to keep things private.
And again, that's the wrong choice of word.
Not keep things private.
They are private.
They are already private.
They are a reflection of our relationship.
Like his taking me away with him to the casino.
Although what we did there, how we were there, was not at all shocking. But it seems almost easier to write about the really kinky stuff, the sadist as sadist, floggers and belts and strips of wood landing on my pale, reddening butt, than about smiles and laughs and shared dinners.
The inner intimacies cradle the true nakedness.
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4 comments:
I understand the impulse. It is easier to speak of the physical, and gets harder and harder to speak aloud the feelings as they deepen. You want to hold it close, the quiet caring is somehow more intimate than the wicked use.
Interesting point that it is more difficult to write about the smiles and shared dinners than your red butt. There is a true intimacy in those smiles and shared dinners.
FD
I am capable of writing about it. But I don't want to. As monkey says, I want to hold it close. Cradle it.
Maybe I'm afraid the colors will fade if it stays too long in the sun?
Hi, I am a new reader here. Interesting entry. Be back to read more of this stuff. Have a great one.
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