W picks me up at the airport, just as we’d arranged. I always feel a little anxious after I am with another lover, especially a new one.  How backwards is this: I go off to meet some potentially fabulous lover, and I need my men to reassure me that they still love me, still want me, when I get back. I know, I know. Screwy.  Anyway.
W not only reassures me he still wants me, he loves to loan me out, so when I see him, and see how excited and hard it has made him, thinking about it, thinking about me being with someone else, all weekend, well, all those anxieties are put to rest. And of course the desire to do these things that he wants me to…to meet other men…is reinforced. I’ve pleased him, and yes, I may be a bottom, but there is still that deeply submissive instinct in me to please him, and I thrill to know I have done so.
When we get home, we relax together. I have not been sure what to expect from him. Brutality? Savagery? A need to obliterate all memory of the “other” from me, to take me and make me his again?
None of these things happen, or at least not in the way I expect.
We talk.  He extracts details from me. We reconnect as people first, and slowly my anxiety ebbs, and I begin to feel real with him again, present.  With him.
We lay down for a nap in the afternoon heat. I want him so badly, I want to feel every part of him, in me, on me. I lay next to him, quiet, acquiescent. I don’t know how to ask for what I want, for his reclaiming of me. Even as he has succeeding in quieting the tumult in my head, my body feels strung as tight as the skin of a drum, but I force myself to quiet, to just be there, inside his space, with his arms around me. The fan overhead makes a lulling hum and soon I fall into a light doze.
I wake soon after. He is sleeping quietly beside me, his breathing regular, familiar now to me after all this time.  And I am still aching with need. Lazily I start to touch myself. No, I don’t want just a “pretty-girl orgasm” as W calls them, but I am so worked up. Maybe, if I just do this, I can go back to sleep.
I don’t know exactly when he wakes, but suddenly his hand is there, on mine, capturing it and pressing it against me. And suddenly, everything changes. I am no longer teasing an orgasm from myself, he is pushing me into it, driving me as he drives his fingers into me, as he crushes my “girl parts,” as his breathing becomes ragged in my ear. I am no longer in control.
It takes me only moments to come, driven by him and the thoughts in my head…thoughts of him leading me into a room by a collar and chain around my neck, hands tied behind my back, a leather gag over my mouth. I am pushed down onto a footstool and the collar clipped to the wall in front of me. He keeps his hand on the chain at my throat, alternately yanking on it and releasing, keeping me from looking around. He pushes my legs apart, pulls my panties halfway down my thighs, exposing me and humiliating me at the same time.  And then he invites the first stranger in. The invasion of this stranger, who I cannot see, who I do not know, is brutal and impersonal. He shoves into me from behind without a word, the only words in my head W’s: “Every cock I let fuck you is my cock, because I have made it happen. You will fuck who I say, when I say, and when you do, you are fucking me, because you are my property.”
And I am home, once again.
For more on reconnecting, check out my post  on A Poly Life.

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