Untitled

Barbs at 20 paces, tips
dipped in our own blood,
we raise pain-filled goblets,
swapping poisoned quaffs.
Anger-fired eyes stab
each tumbling tear.
Caress and slap dance
a bitter do-si-do until
the music stops.
We dress our wounds
and then,
fondling our addiction,
return each time for one more tune.

People who live in glass bodies shouldn't think they can hide anything

He sees right through me.
He knows everything.
He hears my thoughts
as if I put them on his mp3 player
to shout out in his car.

Last Tuesday, he was here.
Last Tuesday, but a few days after our shared Friday night.
Last Tuesday, when I wrote of my doubts:

Why do I keep believing that I'm not worthy
and that anyone who thinks that I am
must not be worth loving?

Why do I feel that it threatens the imbalance of power which works for us, which binds us, which exalts us, and which makes us happy?

I tempered that a little. I toned down the surges of power, the flashes of detachment, that came to me as I served him and made me want to shake my head and clear away the blasphemy.

I was scared.
I was worried.
I was suddenly seeing him differently.

And he knew.

Damn it, he knew!

I don't know how much comes from an innate awareness, and how much from decades of manipulating those who have served him, and how much from a knowledge of me acquired through two and a half years of pleasure and frustration. Whatever the source of his uncanny powers of perception, he sees it all.

Everything.

And that explains Saturday's post, and his assertion that we had to pull back from the way we had been over the last few weeks. He didn't deny his affection for me. He was both sad and angry that he couldn't enjoy me that way any more. But he knew what it did to me. He...

It's all too personal, the things he said.
And all too correct.
What it comes down to, in the end, is my lousy self-image.
How I continue to doubt my own worth.
How I do always pull back from anyone who really wants me.

Oh, it was fine when he was being all sternly dominant, demanding I serve him and suck him, write for him and worship him. The pull of the chain, no matter how many miles separated us. I did think there was something more there but, as long as he never declared it, his affection was the big question mark that just made the chain even stronger, tightening it around my neck and jerking it deeper into my flowing cunt.

But once he admitted it, once we went into romantic mode - and you don't need to be in love to act romantic; admiring affection can trigger it quite nicely - there was a shift in the balance of power. There was a layer of mutuality. Most of the time it was beautiful, sweet, passionate, intense. But yes, every so often I could feel myself pulling away. I was viewing him as another of those men who wanted me when I had no interest in them.

And I was horrified.
Here
suddenly
in the midst of something so beautiful,
affection
manifesting more sweetly
than any supposed love I'd known before...
It scared the shit out of me.
And I could only hope it would pass.

But he felt it.
He knew it.
And in his wisdom, he knew he had to stop it.
Or we would lose everything.

So no more romantic song exchanges.
No more...
I'm starting to cry again.

At least he granted my wish to return to calling him "my Lord." Sticking with only "Sir" was too hard. And we continue to share and fan an obsession with the miniseries The Borgias. He has ordered me to watch naked, with the chain clipped around my left ankle. We watch together, even at a distance. He feels me there with him. It fires our desire and imagination and there I can feel the sweetness still.

I know it will slip out of its bonds, his affection for me. Just as the beast breaks loose from its cage. And I am assured that the affection is still there, in all its warmth. But he can't risk our being together like that.

Because he knows the danger.
He knows what it does to me.
And after days of his insisting that this was how it must be,
he finally found a way to make me see.

It was devastating.
But I saw.

It's hard to recover from a lifetime of self-doubt.
Even with someone who works so hard to make me believe in myself.

I wish he could truly heal me.

Only then would he be able to enjoy me in the beautiful, special way we were with each other for those glorious couple of weeks.

I'll just have to try harder.
He deserves that at least.

I'll just keep trying harder and harder.
Because I am his.
And he deserves all of me.

Undulations

Things are always changing.
Shifting.
Reversing.
Reverting.

Or so it seems.

I have to learn not to worry.
Our life is a wave, not an arrow.
There are cycles, and nothing is ever gone for good.
D/s is, after all a dynamic.
And so it is.
Dynamic.

He worries.
He panics.
He imagines things.

He goes all sweet and soft and smiling and then convinces himself that he can't be strict and mushy too. So suddenly it's No. Can't be like this. No more Mr. Romantic Guy. It's giving you ideas. It's affecting your performance. And you may only call me Sir.

Considering how we'd been for the last couple of weeks, this came as a great shock. A hard smack that sent me crashing to the ground.

Within a few days, he was going soft.
Providing structure but professing his obsessions.
Clearly happy at my request to call him my Lord again.

I need to have faith.
It's never all lost.
We are what we are.
We cannot help ourselves.
We cannot resist desire.
We cannot resist fate.

Breathless

We take each other's breath away.

He takes mine with his hand around my throat.
I take his with my beauty.

Which do you think scares me more?

I am not used to people being smitten with me.
I accept his assertions that I am beautiful.
I look in the mirror and yes, I can say that I'm beautiful.
Not in the way that models are, or movie stars.
But yes, I can see it.

And yes, I know that I'm smart and funny and sparkling and talented - and that for some reason he brings out versions of all that without the oddities that make me incomprehensible to so many. It feels extraordinary to be seen and understood and appreciated and whatever it is that he feels for me in lieu of love though these days I'm starting to wonder.

But he's smitten with me.

I'm not used to people being smitten with me.
I'm not used to people looking at me the way he does.
Smiling with happiness the way he does because we are now a We.
Sending me lists of romantic songs he thinks I'll enjoy.
Saying he wants me to watch the Borgias
because he'll be watching it at the same time
and the sexy young thing being fucked by the Pope
has god damned red hair
and she's making him crazy.

I love him and I get so scared.
He closes his hand around my throat
and I get scared of the power I have.
It comes in little flashes.
I snap out of my loving, submissive haze
and I wonder: who is this man?
And then it's over.
And I'm swimming again in the sweet warm pool of our union.

I'm 62 years old.
I've been married twice.
Nobody has ever treated me like this,
even those who claimed to love me.

It's beautiful.
It's amazing.
It's extraordinary.

Why do I keep believing that I'm not worthy
and that anyone who thinks that I am
must not be worth loving?

Why do I feel that it threatens the imbalance of power which works for us, which binds us, which exalts us, and which makes us happy?

I need to accept.
There is a balance.
We admire each other.
We love each other.
Love.
The word that must stand in for whatever else.
We are grateful to each other.

But when it comes down to it,
he owns me.

He
just
does.

So I'll focus on that,
I'll hang on to that,
I can understand that,
and I'll concentrate on the pull of his chain around my neck.

Love can make things very complicated.

Masturbation mania (2) - enjoying the Siena Symphony

There is a significant difference between testing vibrators and testing, say, refrigerators. A fringe benefit. The process can make you feel really, really good. Oh, I'm sure there are some people who get all tingly when they check out the storage capacity of a new refrigerator, but can it really be quite the same as serious evaluations of Adult Toys?

Yesterday I posted a fairly dispassionate and generally positive review of the Siena Symphony, a vibrator sent to me by the kind people at EdenFantasys in exchange for my writing and posting an honest evaluation. Obviously, though, I didn't give you the whole story. So today will be much more subjective - and probably more arousing. At least I hope it's more arousing! I think it's utterly appropriate to be turned on by a sex toy review, don't you?

I tried out the Symphony on three separate occasions.

The first time, I used it only to stimulate my clitoris, which is normally how I masturbate. Except that normally I only use my fingers. I don't know when I switched to just my fingers. As a child I would rub myself with the palm of my right hand, or rather the flattened underside of my four fingers above my palm. Sometimes I would do what I called playing horsie, which had me lying on my belly, my pillow between my legs, riding it back and forth... oh that did feel good. But I think I must have discontinued that technique by the time I was around 8. And I remember teaching my little sister how to do it. I wonder if she remembers that?

So I don't usually masturbate with outside assistance. Though I must admit that having the Symphony will make it much more likely that I will in the future. I'm so efficient with my fingers, and usually so desperate those times when I'm allowed to masturbate, that I go charging ahead and don't take the time to linger over the pleasure.

As I mentioned yesterday, that first time I went through the ten vibration speeds and patterns in an unsystematic way. I knew, though, that I'd have to go back and sort them out. On that day, the more unusual patterns got me worked up and then I used the straight vibrations to finish myself off. I didn't insert my purple pal at all. And I didn't fantasize, which is unusual for me; I just focused on the vibrations.

My notes say that I had a great orgasm. But it wasn't hugely physical - I wasn't aware of a rush of contractions in my womb. That happens sometimes, especially this time of year, when I'm still taking a fairly huge dose of antidepressants for the SAD. I suspect that age has something to do with it as well. But there was no denying that it was an orgasm, and a badly needed one at that, what with all the stress around my father's surgery (he's doing fine now, and learning to accept the slow voyage toward full recovery). Plus I was full of other emotions, as the sadist and I moved toward and beyond a full and beautiful reconciliation. All this was released by my collaboration with my new lavender friend. I came, then rolled over onto my side and sobbed out loud "Daddy..." wondering, as the word came out, whom I was really addressing, and knowing that first and foremost I was calling to the man who owns me and shows me a happiness I never thought I'd know.

My second outing with the Symphony was a command performance. The sadist wanted to watch me use it. And so I did - a floor show following the salad during last week's long, lunchtime visit.

I forget at times that Daddy often appreciates things differently from other people. I assumed that he would be turned on by watching the vibrator moving in and out of my pussy, especially as he ordered me down on the floor with my feet pointing toward him as he sat in the Eames chair. But then he ordered me to get the pillow off the futon, and to prop myself up so he could see my face as I gave myself pleasure.

I asked if he would be willing to comment on his experience of my experience, and he kindly provided the following:

I rarely looked at the device and/or your pussy. For one thing, your hand and wrist obscured any vision of much else, and then, frankly, pussies, visually, don't really do much for me. Never have. They're just sort of there. Or, since they are an opening, not there. An absence of there, with a bit of window dressing. The rest of your body, however, was another matter. Very pleasing to observe the arching and jerking, and to watch as you drifted in and out of awareness of your surroundings, including me. And always the breathing; shallow and deep, shrill and guttural.

Those were my impressions, in addition to what I said at the time about maybe suggesting a bit of pre-game practice to familiarize oneself with the different settings.

So yes, in its effect on me, my Master gives the Symphony high marks. (You can read more about that visit here.)

The third trial was conducted on Sunday, which found me in a particularly rich and loving state of mind.

There is something you must remember. When I masturbate, it is never for me. And when I masturbate to provide material for a review, that is not the only or even the greatest purpose for the activity. I touch myself for my Master, my Daddy, the sweet sadistic man who owns me and makes my life beautiful. My pleasure is all for his pleasure, and my orgasms are his as well. I touch myself only with his permission, and must report on the experience afterwards. Sometimes I will leave him my orgasm as a voice mail, so he can enjoy it again and again.

This time, last Sunday, he was home as I settled down in my lab. So I reported to him as the experiment progressed. You would think it would inhibit my responses, what with annotating the different stimulation patterns on my yellow pad of paper and then settling the computer on my lap to give him a buzz-by-buzz description of events. But instead, it brought him into the room and heightened my response.

In the interest of science, he has allowed me to share with you my real-time report:

There.

The trials are about to commence.

Pet naked?
Check.

Bath mat under butt to absorb slipped and leaked lube?
Check.

Device at hand?
Check.

Box top available with diagrams of the ten vibratory patterns?
Check.

Astro-Glide?
Check.
Baby doesn't want to risk pussy irritation from too much friction.

Pen and lined yellow pad for taking notes?
Check.

Oh, Daddy, if only you were sitting here in a white lab coat, to observe and take notes and direct the action... I will put you there, Daddy. I will put you there beside the bed. Because everything I do is for you.

See me, Daddy.
See me...

~~~

First pattern tested, Daddy. The strongest plain vibration. I am trying to remain detached and scientific, checking and identifying each pattern, observing my responses, making notes, before settling down - and in - to what can truly be termed masturbation.

But I'm already... well, the truth is it's not just from the vibrator, Daddy. My pussy was feeling tingly but as soon as I started writing you the contractions began and now they're just getting worse. Because we know, of course, that it's not a purely physical response.

Is it, Daddy...

And now I feel you looking at me... and touching me... and how much of that was triggered by vibrating silicone and how much by your nearness as my fingers make contact with the keys...

~~~~~

Expansion of the image, Sir.

An additional operative is required.

Experimental subject (your pet) on the surface of your choosing, though what I saw was a plain bed with iron headboard painted white, like an old-fashioned hospital bed in those old movies. Subject naked and unrestrained, except for cold steel chain fastened snugly around her neck and attached to headboard - not so much for restraint as to remind subject that she is indeed owned property and that the proceedings are not designed for her pleasure.

You, of course, direct the proceedings. But there is a third party, Sir. Your assistant. This person stands over the subject, applying the device per your instructions, so that subject's participation can be pure and limited to reactions. Subject's head is raised - or perhaps the whole head end of the bed is raised, to facilitate observation, and assistant is often scolded for inadvertently blocking your view.

The poor assistant becomes quite aroused, Sir, but you deny any relief unless at some point it would serve your pleasure.

You might perhaps enjoy making a film of the experiment, to capture the sights and sounds... the sounds, Sir... I do think you would enjoy the sounds...

~~~~~

I'm sure I would enjoy that, my pet.

~~~~~

mmm... momentarily... computer on lap... vibrator between legs, positioned along length of slit but not inserted, operating in strong bursts... there as an element of torture to this, Daddy... I almost left all my typos to show what it is doing to me... one more pattern to try and then I will proceed to insertion...

Daddy?

I wish you could see my face, Daddy... and hear my whimpers... one of the main things I'm learning from this is not to push but to give myself to the sensations... let them work their way in and do their thing... they end up having much more power than I would expect from first pulse...

Beautiful and painful... which tends to translate to fantasies of pain...

~~~~~

My cock wants you.

~~~~~

[Later]

mmm... I'm glad your cock wants me, Daddy.

I'm fighting my way out of my post-orgasmic stupor... had a lovely nap... a lovely orgasm... for you, Daddy... as I rose towards it, I was wishing I could have given it to you in a voice mail...except that changes it, Daddy. I become aware... and concerned about timing... when to call... worried I won't in fact cum once I do call.. or that I will cum too soon or too late...

Anyway, Daddy, it was for you whether you saw and heard it or not. As I grew very close... and it was a lovely, gradual, unforced build-up... oh, and speaking of your cock, Daddy love, I realized this vibrator is a lovely device for Kegel exercises... anyway.... mmm... I could have slept all afternoon and slept much longer than I meant to... oh where was I?... so floaty, Daddy... as I was getting close I said (to myself? aloud? I'm honestly not sure) Hurt me, Daddy.... and then I rose even closer and I said Don't hurt me, Daddy! Please, don't hurt me... and then I came.

mmm... feeling so relaxed... and a little squirmy and flirty and young and you're my Daddy and my life and I love you... and I should take a shower now...

I love you.
I do.

And I feel your fingers closing, clamping onto my nipples...

So.
I'd say the Symphony did a very good job.
Wouldn't you?

And now, on to the next.
I'll be getting another toy soon for this month's review.
(This review is really last month's review but I got an extension due to family illness.)

The next toy will be another of their G-spot Vibrators, so I can do a comparison test while learning more about that elusive part of my interior.

Again, thanks to EdenFantasys for inviting me into their program, and to the sadist for allowing me to participate. It really has been a lot of fun, both the testing and the writing. And most important of all, it has given pleasure to the sadist, who gives so much pleasure to me.

Masturbation mania (1) - testing the Siena Symphony

Beautiful.
As weird as it may appear in photos, the Siena Symphony is simply beautiful.

But let me back up.

As noted in this post weeks and weeks ago, I was one of a number of sex bloggers recently approached by EdenFantasys, an online seller of so-called Adult Toys. I liked their website, which I had already encountered (again, see the previous post for more details) and decided to accept their offer of free toys in exchange for reviews and links.

I chose the Siena Symphony, one of their G-spot Vibrators, because it was just plain weird. Not clumsy weird. Not awkward. Just... different. Not trying to look like something it wasn't.

In the end, I decided that it is beautiful.
In its own simple way, it is beautiful.
And once you realize that it is a product of Danish design, it all makes sense.
Elegant, modern, well-thought out...

My only regret was that family demands made it impossible for me to properly test it until now. So not only am I late in fulfilling my responsibility to EdenFantasys, but I was missing a great opportunity to get around the strict control that the sadist maintains over my orgasms. (I did, of course, obtain permission from him to participate in this program. He rightfully assumed that it would contribute to his pleasure as well as to mine. And we all know whose pleasure is the only one that counts in this relationship. Theoretically, anyway.)

In the end, I conducted 3 tests of the beautiful creature, under different conditions. The middle test was held last Tuesday, and was a demonstration for the sadist of the Symphony's effects on his pet. His comments, along with other more subjective reports, will be in tomorrow's post. Today's report will be a scientific examination, based on experiments conducted in my lab (pictured above).

The first thing I noticed was the lack of excess packing material. The shipping box wasn't outrageously bigger than the manufacturer's box, and the latter is a good place to keep the Symphony when not in use. I had hoped to get a picture of the cats exploring the latest member of the family; their meager interest is testimony to the lack of plastic in the package. Thanks to both the manufacturer and EdensFantasys on that!

In addition to storage, the box provides a handy representation of the 10 vibration patterns, which was very useful as I conducted my lab tests. With this and any multi-patterned toy, it's a good idea to take some time for systematic exploration. The first time I tried the Symphony, my trip through the patterns was more haphazard and I didn't get as much benefit from them.

I love the feel of the vibrator in my hand. It has a nice heft to it, feeling solid and well-made. And the silicone is almost velvety in texture. It cleans up easily, and I appreciated knowing that I wouldn't have to use it with a condom. Good thing that, considering its creative design.

The Symphony comes in 2 colors: a sweet pink and a soft lavender. I'm generally inclined towards purple, and the philosopher always liked me in pink so I still feel rather sensitive about that color. Lavender it was, then, and I was delighted with my choice.

I must admit to having been a little worried about the width of it. I'm not into having fat things in my cunt, be they real live penises or silicone substitutes. And this looked fat. I was happily surprised at how comfortable it felt inside me, especially given its unusual shape. Today's lab tests showed that the combination of shape and width makes the Symphony ideal for doing Kegel exercises, which the sadist urges me to practice. Unlike with other insertion toys, I found that it stayed wedged inside me while I squeezed my muscles around it without my having to hold it in place with my hand - which meant I could sit up in bed pulsing away with my pussy while e-mailing the sadist about what I was doing and feeling.

Time now to turn the creature on.

A slight negative here. I found it to be a bit loud, although EdenFantasys rates it only 2 bees out of a possible 5. I meant to turn it on and go into the other room to see how far the buzz carries, but forgot to. Still, I'm sure it's a lot quieter than other vibrators.

The other thing to note is that it is not the strongest vibrator out there. If you want to really blast your way to an orgasm, this is not your baby, and there were times that I wished it had a bit more oomph. The handy rating chart on the website gives the Symphony 4 vrooms out of 5. It's clearly a very solid, powerful motor, though, and the vibrations spread throughout the device (as the sadist insists on calling it).

And for me there are advantages to its not being overly strong. My sometime complaint about vibrators is that they can sort of numb my clit, which I don't find to be a pleasant sensation. But today, as I explored the various settings, I allowed them to work their magic on me. And magic it was. I yielded to the patterns the way I yield to the sadist. I didn't strain, I didn't push, I didn't reach for the orgasm. I just allowed myself to feel, and ended up with both a delicious symphony (yes, really) of sensuality and a slow rise to a deliciously satisfying orgasm.

oatmeal girl was reduced to mush.

And this despite the rather disruptive need to make notes along the way, not to mention e-mailing the sadist.

Uh-oh... just thinking about this afternoon's playtime is unleashing ripples of pleasure. All on its own, my womb is demonstrating its own pattern of pulsation, and my pussy is swelling and dripping. A bonus!

One more comment and I'll wrap up today's post. Come back tomorrow for a more subjective analysis, including the sadist's comments on my performance last Tuesday and excerpts from my messages to him during my time in the lab today.

The Symphony is promoted as a G-spot and clitoral vibrator. I'm not that experienced with G-spot work. In fact, it was the philosopher who taught me, via e-mail, how to find it and stimulate it! I did experiment with assorted internal positions today, and sometimes did sense something very special and different going on. But I never felt that I was taking full advantage of that aspect of the device. I'm looking forward to conducting further experiments. On the other hand, the unusual shape gave me many ways to induce pleasure via external stimulation, including laying the concave curve along my slit, with the tip heading in the direction of my little butt hole. Very nice...

I was quite happy with how the Symphony felt inside me. Quite happy indeed. For just plain fucking myself, I'd still like something similar to my now defunct FunFactory friend. But for a positively delicious (and not so often granted) session of sensual pleasure, and to provide me (meaning to provide the sadist, whether in attendance or not) with a most satisfying orgasm, I'll be happily returning to the Symphony.

Thank you, EdenFantasys!

Don't forget to come back tomorrow for Part 2, which will be less scientific and, I hope, more arousing.

Love and desire defeat common sense

You may blog about this, he said.
Was that last night or this morning?
Where did one begin and the other end?
Thank you, I said, not sure that I wanted to.

How should I tell the story?
What can I say that would give you a peek at the beauty?
And do I really want to share...
what we had,
how we were,
how we loved.

As our relationship has catapulted into a far greater intimacy than we ever could have imagined, I have found myself less and less willing to include others in our memories.

Oh, it's easy enough to tell the bare facts.
Which are these.

A Friday night.
We each have our vices.
I go to shul.
He goes to bars.

Sometimes I stay home and we exchange e-mails and texts as he roams his town under an hour from here. At times I have written reams of pornography for him. Episodic tales, spread over messages, designed for his desires and urges and needs. Sometimes he'll text me again when he gets home, his tongue and fingers loosened by alcohol.

Six weeks ago, he invited me up to hang out with him. Which eventually precipitated the worst crisis we ever had in the two and a half years we've known each other. The worst crisis along with the most welcome avowal on his part.

That he...
has feelings for me.
Let's keep it at that.
Strong feelings, it is clear,
though not granted the name of love.
Still.
Feelings.
Powerful feelings.
I've seen them on his his face...

We made it through the crisis, again and again, thinking we had survived the worst and then hitting another stretch of rapids. It was horrible. It was scorching. It left us beaten and bleeding.

It left us a couple.

Make no mistake.
It is still very much a D/s relationship.
And the Beast still poses very grave dangers.
In fact, he was the one who saved things.
He fought for me.
He didn't want to let me go.

But oh, how different it is when a thick stone wall has been demolished. The sadist's declaration of feelings was the trumpet blast that took down our own wall of Jericho and granted us the truest form of intercourse, far more intimate than can be achieved by cock and pussy alone.

Still.
That night, that weekend, that week, hangs over us.
The fear is always there.

Yesterday afternoon, we were exchanging thoughts about music. As suppertime approached, I asked if he'd be going carousing, commenting that I would probably go to services. And I did mean to go to services. I have friends at the shul, the rituals calm me, and I hadn't left the house all day. Aggravation over the parental situation had been making both my sister and me violently nuts all week.

I did mean to go to shul.
I did.
I wanted to go.
I wanted to get out.

But I didn't want to be away from him.
Even if being together meant no more than an electronic connection.

"Are you out carousing, Daddy?" I asked, after describing my plans.

"I am. So you may communicate if you want. Or worship here."

See?
There's the problem.
He says things and I don't always understand them.
He thinks they're clear
and I don't always realize that I've misunderstood.

I'm trying to be better about admitting that I don't know what the hell he is saying. When I realize I don't know what he's saying. In this case, it took a good 15 minutes before another confusing statement led me to say "I don't understand, Sir."

Immediately followed by:

Oh, wait.
By "worship here" did you mean where you are, Daddy?

He did.

This was followed by a few volleys on what a stupid idea that probably was and how badly we wanted to be with each other. Finally, he gave me instructions.

Until around 9:30 or so, it was a very odd sort of date. Or it would be for anyone but us. He sent me to a favorite haunt of us for dinner. He would pay, but I would be there alone. There were reasons for the choice of restaurant and for my solitude.

But we were never apart. Even during the drive up, when I was so good until almost the end about not texting or even looking at the texts that came from him. But once at my destination, the conversation flew.

What to say now...

I'll leave it at this.
We shouldn't have been there together.
In the end, we were there together.

And after that, we were somewhere else.
Together.
Very together.

For when he joined me at the restaurant, he had in his pocket a key.
Or,
to be more precise,
a key card.
For a room.
Picked up on the way over.

And eventually, that is where we went.
I followed him.
We parked.
We entered the room.

I don't think I'll tell you anything more.
Except that there was great joy and great wonder and great pleasure.
And that by the time he had to leave, he hadn't had enough.

"I want you to spend the night here," he said.
"I'll be back in the morning," he said.
"Wait for me."

He left around 1:30 in the morning. Could it really have been so early? I checked the time on our texts and that seems to be about right.

I slept little.
He slept even less.
We felt each other all night.
And at 10 am he returned.

By 10:45 I was on my way home.

I guess I'm glad I wrote this after all. Inadequate as it is. Words cannot capture the longing, the desire, the passion, the love on my side and the undefined intense emotions on his which surrounded us that evening, that night, that morning.

Last night.
This morning.

And tonight?
Can you hear it in my voice?
Can you see into my eyes?
Can you sense my trembling?

Joy.
Love.
The pain of longing.
And the lingering sense
of his body
exchanging cells with mine
until now we are one.