Fragment of Life
My life is like a mosaic stained glass window. It has many fragments, and they are all different in color, size, shape, and their place in my life...
He was one of those fragments—a Doctor of Technical Sciences (and holds many other titles), currently alive, well, and quite plump, which I wish for him for many years to come. I will write about him in the past tense because he WAS in my life.
From the very moment I stepped out of the car to meet him, it was clear that he was already "at my feet," that I was his mistress, that he was my slave. I teased him, mocked him, taunted him, stroked him with and against the grain, joked sometimes quite sharply...
And he endured it all, smiled, and called me "his mistress," wrote romantic letters that spurred me on, looked at me with adoring eyes, and was ready to carry me in his arms (if only I allowed it).I would snap my fingers in front of his nose, press against him, stamp my foot, kiss him on the nose, act capriciously, tell him he was the very best, sent him text messages asking him to come (a small aside: he lived in another city, a 4-hour drive to me), and when he arrived, I would turn away and leave...
But to the next similar text message, he would reply: "On my way." In 4 hours, he was with me. I would get into his car, and we would drive to the nearest hotel. As soon as the room door closed behind us, he changed. In his eyes, I saw a spark of a hunter, his lips stretched into a self-satisfied smile, absolutely everything: gestures, facial expressions, voice, movements—all spoke of his superiority. Sometimes I was so surprised I couldn't even move from the spot, so drastic was his transformation! He would subdue me, and struggling was useless (he was about 3 times larger than me), and I didn't want to anyway. He would tie me up in a humiliating position and watch, deriving immense pleasure from this contemplation—that was the first act.
And then, I would be left without clothes. All my clothing was ropes... He would put a blindfold on my eyes, tie me up in various positions, bind me to furniture, swaddle me in blankets, make a candy wrapped in plastic film and tape, leaving only the necessary areas free, and caress me... He caressed me for a long time, agonizingly, sweetly, admiring how my body writhed in response to his caresses, how my nails scratched everything within reach, how my breathing became ragged, my voice disappeared, and I arched my back towards his fingers and tongue, trying to break the bonds tying me to reality. He took short breaks to rest, changed the restraining position, and caressed me again. At the same time, he rarely received physical pleasure himself, enjoying only what he saw... He drank my juices, calling me "fresh morning"; checked all my holes with his fingers, tongue, and "handy" tools, thoughtfully prepared by him in advance; put a stick between my teeth and smiled joyfully, seeing a trickle of saliva flowing from my mouth; brought me to the strongest orgasm, and then smirked mockingly at the wet spot beneath me...
When I was completely exhausted, he would wrap me in blankets, firmly securing them with ropes on top, and we would fall asleep next to each other. Then we would go to the shower (I was still not free). He would soap up a washcloth and wash me himself. And then again and again, he would tie me up and caress, caress, caress... Wringing out of me: "I am yours! Have mercy!"
Only after that did I see that he was satisfied. His eyes shone with satiety, his movements became relaxed, that very expression of adoration for "his mistress," forgotten during the session, appeared on his face. He slowly untied the knots, stroking and kissing every mark on my skin, said pleasant words, carefully, like a fragile vase, turned me from side to side to free me, rubbed my numb limbs, warming them with his breath or the warmth of his body... And then he would write me letters, romantic ones, all frills and pink sentimentality, but so pleasing to my vanity... I would read them, and again and again, I wanted to be under him. This desire was so strong that I forgot about caution! And again, I would write: "Come," and in response, I would get: "On my way."
Now, looking back, I understand that this was the perfect version of thematic relationships for me.
Someday, the elements will shatter the stained glass window, the fragments will scatter on the ground, and nothing will remain. But for now, memories, like the sharp edge of a fragment, painfully cut the skin, but instead of blood, droplets of disappointment over lost thematic happiness appear...
Author's e-mail: tolkotam. mail. ru