For the past few weeks something has been under my skin. I've been snappy, grumpy and generally dissatisfied: kicking over the traces for no discernible reason. I'm not usually prone to moodiness and before anyone mentions it, no, I don't get PMT (fortunately). I was just really cross and fed up. I was trying to work out what it was, thinking about my job, life plans, family and friends and could not put my finger on it. I wandered about my flat and a variety of coffee shops wondering whether I had some sort of terrible malaise or "drop" that had come from nowhere.
Then it hit me.
I really, really, really needed to have some kinky sex.
Fortunately, Captain had arrived back in town at the moment I was trying to walk some of the frustration off and so I was able to voice my concerns to a caring audience. He knows what it's like to feel that mixture of tired and horniness. Needing sex is both a practical and emotional requirement. On the one hand its a need, like food or air or sleep that has physical knock-on effects when lacking. The remedy is physical also and to misquote zen: when hungry, eat, when horny, fuck. But on the other hand it does more than scratch an itch, it fills a certain mental and personal space, the bit of me that craves that sort of intimacy that D/s offers, the reassurance of the power exchange, the satisfaction in myself of being that desired, beautiful and fuckable object. Even if just for an hour or two.
Which is how it went.
Lying in bed, hooded and safe as a canary under a blanket, convinced its nightfall. The leather hood is buttery-soft, laced tight at the back of my head so it forms a barrier to the world and all its many harassments. I can't see you, so you can't get at me. There are no holes for my nose so breathing is a little difficult - mouth-breathing always makes me concentrate on the breath itself, rendering it forced and unnatural, lacking in normal reflex. A collar fastens around my neck, padlocked tight and the weight is comforting and almost nursery rhyme levels of "just right". Cuffs on my ankles and wrists, similarly sealed, with a chain running from feet through hands to neck and pulled tight enough so I can't lie out flat. I'm on my side in a loose foetal position, my back nestled in against his chest and his arms around me, fingers playing lazily with my nipple piercings.
"This is the kind of D/s I like" He mutters and I couldn't agree more. It's a normalised abnormality, this kind of kink. An easy and uncomplicated set of actions that feel entirely appropriate to who we are and where. No messing around or fuss. Me, in bondage, restrained and exposed at the same time. Him, in bed with something to use or not use, as he sees fit. He fucks me and then we sleep. Or rather he sleeps and I doze. I'm not sure I could spend every night in bondage, much as I would like to, because although the sense of security and "ownership" is strong and deeply pleasant which does lull me into calm slumber it's usually fitful. Lack of free movement makes natural sleep difficult - you move a lot more than you'd think whilst asleep - so keeping one position becomes awkward.
And yet, despite that I woke up feeling better, rested and refreshed. The anxiety, tetchiness and annoyance at the world had receded, things were back to normal. For a given value of normal.