He still can make me cry

There is pain worse than spanking.

He finally wrote back last night.

I wrote to say we were all okay, that none of us had been hurt in the awful collision between two Metro trains (Metro = subway, tunnelbana, tube, le Métro, the T; 9 were killed). It happened on the Red Line, the line I would take, our end of the line I would take if I didn't work a mile and a half from home. So I wrote to say we were okay. Because we were all getting messags by e-mail and on Facebook from friends out of town, asking if the whole gang was okay.

So I wrote to say we were all ok. And that if he ever wanted me to stop sending all these little messages, just tell me.

And this morning, for the first time in 3 months, there was his name in my Inbox.

And I started to cry. Damn, you can count on me to start crying.

It's not that I really thought he was dead. Not really. But you don't have to seriously believe that someone is dead to worry about him. And in my heart and in my soul I've been very very worried about him.

There are many kinds of love.

Yes, I say I love the sadist, and I do. But not like I love the cats and not like I love chocolate and not like I love Stockholm and Paris, and not with the protective fierceness with which I love New York. I can't describe how I love him. But it's not romantic love. It's a love born of intimacy, of creative collaboration and because my nakedness before him comes not from a lack of clothes but from the way he can see straight through me and out again. Which is why he can and will get me to do anything he wants, willingly if trembling with fear and amazement.

But the philosopher... the way I loved the philosopher... past tense? Who knows. I'm writing now and I'm crying again and maybe it's just crying for lost dreams, for fantasies of something that never could have been... but when it worked... and when we were together... could I have been making it up? I don't think I was making it up... There was a comfort I'd never known before, and perhaps may never know again. but what I wouldn't give to have him here, to be curled up on the couch or the futon or the bed, doing crossword puzzles or watching a movie or planning an extravaganza of a meal and cooking together and cleaning together and bringing his tea which had better be made just as he likes it and kneeling by his side and the box of pinhole cameras is still sitting on the floor in the study and he said very little but he's glad we're okay, he's glad I'm okay.

It takes a long time for a broken heart to stop hurting.

My Master paid me a visit today and I've asked if I may publish here the poem I wrote for him and I asked if I could cum but I haven't heard back from him since he left and anyway I'm tired.

I'm exhausted.

And yes, of course, after "lunch" which was really serving him and then stuffing my mouth with a little chicken before running back to the office, my mouth stained red from his kisses... after lunch I thought of him all afternoon and floated and worked on the poem and deliberately shifted in my seat so I would feel the pain from a not all that terrible punishment spanking which I deserved because you don't try to negotiate with a dom and especially not with a sadist. But I came home and I was exhausted. Absolutely drained. And then I sat down at the computer and started crying and realized why.

So yes. He wrote back. This little message which indicated that he was aware of what had happened down here and wondered how we were. And of course I was impulsive and wrote back about how relieved I was to hear from him. I'm much too emotional, but I've decided that there's no point in trying to cover up who I am.

So that's it. He wrote back. He's glad everyone's okay. He's glad I'm okay.

But it's not what he said.
It's what he didn't say.
It doesn't mean much, I'm not taking it as meaning anything.
But it's a comfort.
What he didn't say.

He didn't tell me not to write.