Note – this post will make no sense at all if you have not read Torn. Its structure, tense and references will assume you have.
After gathering myself, both emotionally and physically, what I perceived as what had happened started to hemorrhage in whatever you choose to believe in as one’s self, soul, spirit, entity, etc. By the bucketful. I felt like I was drowning from the inside out.
This Yet To Be Named Thing that had escaped from wherever he lives inside me (it has to be the from the furthest recesses in the deepest, darkest part of my aforementioned inner self) slithered back to that hole, probably with an evil laughing fit, burping after an engorged feast of emotional bloodletting. A soul parasite sounds about right.
Reality crashed back atop me. I watched Leigh, totally ignorant of her apparent bliss at my gruff, commanding efforts, get dressed. I guess she was floating. I felt like I was drowning. Fast.
“Are you OK??” I must have asked a half dozen times in a multitude of ways.
She nodded in the affirmative. I don’t recall verbal replies, which is typically a huge red flag that she is not alright. At the best I may have received a “Mhhhmmm.”
I could not take my eyes off her. Every motion was studied for hints of troubles left unsaid. She is like that, so it was not out of character even at the time.
“If you had said the safe word I would have stopped” I implored. She knew that. I guess I just needed to hear it myself.
Hugs. Lots of them. Cradling her face, searching its cuteness for anything, especially her baby blues.
What I perceived and took was indifference. I just assumed it was cause, not effect, that it wasn’t the traumatic event my mind raced with.
I mind fucked myself stupid…the irony.
We cleaned up and went to the cook-out, which was nice. In hind sight it was probably very fortuitous that I had that buffer of conversation, laugher, food and just time to not stew in my own poison.
I do recall Leigh being more touchy, flirty in a shy way. The PDAs were wonderful and, to me, could not have come at a better time. She doesn’t recall being more “this is my guy”, but she was.
That evening was intense. We fucked like teenagers left alone in the basement with no parental controls on the satellite TV. She came like a broken fire hydrant all over me. I returned the favor all over her. I needed both of them, one physically, the other emotionally.
It wasn’t until late morning the next day that I fully hit Topspace. And I had never soared as high as I did that day. I fucking Lorded over sensory application. Everything was better. My focus was laser sharp, I had the energy of a triathlete and the mood of a recently baptized convert. It was like being 18, bulletproof, owning a Mustang GT, dating the head cheerleader and had $300 in my pocket.
That evening, gravity collected its dues.
The Topdrop was almost too much to bear. Crashed is an understatement. On top of that was the self-awareness of this dichotomy of what I still believed had happened slamming head-on into the utter bliss of how I felt as a result at 110 MPH. The carnage was exquisite in its ragged details.
“We need to talk” I texted Leigh. Her 🙂 back was 🙂 to my face.
That evening I poured all the hemorrhaging of the past 24 hours onto our dining room table as she sat across from me. I struggled to even look her in the eyes.
Via TDND™ blog I get complimented very often on my way with words. That evening I stammered like a 12-year old trying to find the courage to ask the cute red-headed girl with the big blue eyes to dance.
I talked, no, spilled. Leigh listened to my every word with care, offering her own thoughts, insights, questions. Word by word she bandaged my inner wounds and stopped my soul from bleeding.
That evening was beyond words once the bedroom door closed. We started playing around 10something PM. We did not drift off to exhausted, content, every last orgasm wrung from her spasming body sleep until after 1:30AM. Four separate times we stopped. Three times we started back at it. In an ironic twist Leigh’s own inner “thing” (aka The Cock Slut) made an appearance at the end of the third time and throughout the fourth. She was laughing maniacally with each squirting orgasm.
Still raw inside, the following day was better. We texted a lot, and later that evening another round of verbal triage was administered at the dining room table. Later that night, in that she was literally empty, she made me scream with her mouth. Do the math.
A week’s worth of private introspection, public wound cleaning on the blog via Torn, all of your comments and blog posts on your own perverted interest du jour has helped a lot.
I’ve learned a lot this past week, about myself, my amazing doll Leigh, what it’s going to be like learning to be the best Sir I can to her within both a D/s and married dynamic, and that, yes, I fucking crave taking her against her will.
So the two of us sit here and click away on my trusty MacBook….
Scot Thomas aka The Dom Next Door.
And The Yet To Be Named Beast peering out from deep within.
I’m sure you have not heard the last from….it. But you will hear the next. And I will be better prepared when it escapes again and wants to play with Leigh.
Thanks again for all your support, comments and Likes. This chapter is closed, the story continues.