From despondence to deliverance
It was not a happy weekend. John was exhausted and stressed out, I was fretful and worried, and things didn’t go well. It wasn’t one big thing, but a lot of little ones. On Saturday night, we rallied a bit and went out for a nice dinner. The server even called us an adorable couple. But on Sunday, we were at each other in the morning and I ended up in tears. My mood came crashing down and stayed there. We talked a while before I left and were back on good terms, but I felt godawful. I was more than ready to see Mr. D for some stress release.
This morning, I tried to perk up, but I didn’t do a great job of it. My face looked tired and my eyes were still puffy. When Mr. D arrived, he asked, “Are you tired? Action-packed weekend?” “Lousy weekend,” I replied. He took me to the couch and sat me down, insisting that I tell him all about it. Which I did. And of course, there went the damn waterworks again.
So we didn’t play right away. He let me cry, talked with me, reassured me. When I calmed down and felt a little better, he asked if I just wanted to relax today and talk. I said no, I was OK, let’s play.
Everything went fine for a long time, all through the OTK warm-up and well into the continuation of the scene over the ottoman. He brought up the “Tops Are Always Right” business from last week, this time calling it “T. A. A. R.” and asking me what that stood for. We shot some funny footage of him doing his damndest to convince me to give the right answer, with me giving everything but. “Tops Are Always Ridiculous” “Tops Are Always Repetitive.” “Tops Are Always Righteous.” “Tops Are Always Rude.” I do have the clips prepared and I’ve already posted them on Spanking Tube, but I’m not going to post them here just now. I will wait a day or two.
Because after that, things went south.
I’m not sure exactly where, or how. But after he got into the implements, my tolerance suddenly took a dive. Everything hurt, and I struggled. A few minutes ago I’d been laughing and joking and playfully wriggling, so he thought this was more of the same. “Hold still,” he scolded, ramping things up. Which made me struggle more. I couldn’t seem to absorb it, and I was starting to panic.
This is where I should have called a time-out or something. I didn’t want him to stop; just maybe to slow down a tad, know I was struggling and cut a little slack about the moving around. But I didn’t. I wanted him to read my mind, read my body. I wanted him to just know. Not fair.
We have been ending with the cane for the past several sessions, and it’s hard to take when I’m nearly toast, but I do. I hunker down and accept it, melt into it. Not this time. I thought I’d go shooting through the ceiling. And when one strike hit a little on the low side, I screamed and thrashed away from him. Then I got back into position, but I was sobbing. I thought he’d stop, but he continued for a few more.
Then he paused. “Do you need a little more?” he asked. I couldn’t believe my ears. Didn’t he know? Why didn’t he know? Why wasn’t he reading me like he usually does? Rudely, I blurted, “What do YOU think?” Bless his heart, he didn’t snap back or get annoyed with me; he answered, very calmly, “I want to hear it from you.” So I shrieked, “NO!”
He stopped immediately. I stayed where I was, bawling into the pillow. “Come on, sweetie, let’s go to the bedroom; I’ll get some ice for you,” he said. I started to push myself back up, slowly and painfully.
“Wait,” I heard him say gently behind me. “Do you want a very pretty picture?”
I appreciated that he asked first. I nodded and kept still.
He led me into the bedroom and laid me face down, then went into the kitchen to get my ice packs. I wept and wept and wept; I just couldn’t stop. He iced me down, all the while saying soothing, loving things, but I was unresponsive. All I could do was cry; my brain would not form coherent thoughts. I don’t know why. I just knew I was a mess, and I couldn’t help it.
My breath was coming in short gasps and I was shaking all over. He reminded me several times to breathe, told me I was going to be OK, he’d take care of me, he was sorry things got out of hand. I still couldn’t speak, and I couldn’t look at him. After a while, he stopped talking and tried to gather me into his arms. But I curled into a ball on my side, my arms wrapped around myself, my head ducked, and I kept on crying. I don’t know where it all came from.
He didn’t push. He just put his arms around me and waited. Eventually, the weeping subsided, the trembling stopped, my body relaxed and lost its rigidity. Finally, my arms loosened and unwound, and I wrapped one across his chest. It had been about a half hour to 45 minutes since our scene ended.
“I missed you,” he said. I know what he meant. I went into a dark place, one where he couldn’t reach me, couldn’t connect with me. But instead of trying to drag me out, he patiently let me crawl out on my own, when I was ready. I know I scared him. He thought he’d blown it. That I wouldn’t want to do this with him anymore.
Not a chance, dearest top. I need you.
We talked it out. He said the mis-read was all his fault, but it takes two to miscommunicate. I needed to let him know, properly, that things weren’t working and we could have regrouped. It happened so fast and my mind went into such a mush, I guess I just couldn’t. But it’s not fair to expect him to know everything. Tops have a hell of a lot of responsibility, a lot is placed into their hands, and they can’t be expected to be perfect all the time.
“I will be a lot more careful,” he promised. “No, no, you don’t have to,” I said. “I don’t want you to hold back. Maybe just be…”–I struggled for the right word–“…mindful.” He admitted that he got a bit wound up with the scene and wasn’t paying as much attention as he usually does. Wow. He’s human.
“Are you OK?” he asked me. “I can’t leave until I know you’re OK.” I told him I was, and I meant it. Then I snuggled close and put my head on his chest.
Something was different. His chest was still and quiet, with just the faintest of heartbeat detectable. What was so weird about that? Then it hit me. This was the first time, in a very long while, that I’d put my head on a man’s chest and not felt his heart hammering and banging in my ear. Even when he is resting, John’s heart laboriously pounds and struggles to function, so hard that I can actually see it as well as feel it. My poor baby. No wonder he’s so exhausted all the time.
This awareness hurt my own heart, and I started crying yet again. Jesus Christ. I’m going to dry up and blow away one of these days.
I told Mr. D what I was thinking about, and he said, “It’s OK. You love him. You’re worried about him.” He then told me that his quiet chest was mine to lean on whenever I needed it. Whenever things got too overwhelming and scary. Because they will be. John has a ticking time bomb in his chest and something will need to be done. Probably soon.
I will need to be John’s rock. But I have a rock of my own. I must remember that.
Mr. D left. I knew I wasn’t going to make it to the gym. There was no way I could deal with crowds and noise and waiting for equipment, and I didn’t feel well anyway; all that crying had nauseated me. After about an hour or so, however, I felt better, so I went to the mini-gym in our laundry room and worked out for nearly two hours.
My head is quiet, my heart is full. My body is relaxed. The crash of pure exhaustion has not hit yet, but I’m sure it will soon, and hard. So I think I will wrap this up.
Next post, fun videos. For tonight, I needed to keep it raw and real.
Thank you, Mr. D. ♥