Today, my ass is well marked. Nothing reminds me of M, that I belong to him, quite like a sore ass. The way the fabric of my panties rubs the stingy skin, the more deeply tender parts that give me pause as I sit or brush up against something, the rhythmic ache as it moves with each foot strike on the ground as I run – each bringing a smile to my face, a flash of remembrance as I recall the strikes, the sound of his voice and the implement on my skin. The knowledge that I am HIS.
This marking I bear is something deeper. This particular marking was a deeper communication from M. He has a leg and hip injury that pains him daily. It has required many surgeries and there will be more to come. It’s something we deal with in our daily lives, something that requires a great deal of communication and trust. I worry about him, it’s my nature, but he doesn’t want me to fuss about it. He wants me to trust he’ll do what he can do and communicate if he cannot or needs help with something, or that he’ll direct our sexual experiences according to how his body feels and not hurt himself. I do my very best to honor his wishes, but I worry and he knows it. Recently, his hip and leg were hurting very badly, and he communicated that to me, a reminder to us that a surgery isn’t too far off, and we both cried. It is so difficult to see his pain, both physical and emotional. I absorb it; I want to take it away. I know it effects him, I see it. I feel it. Isn’t that what we do when we love someone so absolutely?
On Sunday evening, the day after that talk, he gave me directions to wait for him, then used our oak cane. Swift and hard, side to side. He listened to my gasps and low moans with each strike. He watched by body and its responses to him, pushing me further. Then, he spoke to me as he struck, showing me how he could stand this way, or sit that way, and still use that cane, even if he had a surgery. Even if he were in a wheelchair. With decisive strikes, ones that drew a hissing intake of air, causing me to hold my breath, he showed me, over and over. Until, in my ear, he said, “I’m not broken.” Upstairs, he did the same thing – with fists and grabs, pulls and grasps, positions and directions, he fucked me silly, showing and telling me he could and would be just fine, no matter the circumstance. He ended behind me, his hips pressing onto those fresh marks he’d made. I was so moved, all I could do was thank him and hold him. The WHOLE M. We talked the next day and I know those marks were to be my reminder that not only do I belong to him, but that he is NOT broken. And I need not forget it, that I must trust.
Two days later, on Tuesday, we had some last minute alone time. On top of those lingering cane marks, he used the belt. The thwack of leather over those cane marks was something I’d daydreamed about. It was unbelievable – one of the most intense sexual experiences we’ve ever had. He did many things, but he did not fuck me or direct me to pleasure him. I believe I was meant to remember not to worry about his body, to just let go and trust his choices. Again, I was left with lovely marks as my reminder. He lovingly massaged lotion over them and caressed them. The next evening, M had me lie down and he massaged them again, right before he had his way with me, from behind, his weight on those marks.
Yesterday evening, as I was cooking dinner, he swatted my ass, thoroughly enjoying the slight discomfort paired with they joy on my face. Later, as he was between my legs, he leaned side to side so he could squeeze and run his fingers over my ass, mixing the sting and dull ache with the pleasure he was orchestrating. Clearly, he was communicating, “Mine,” but he was saying something more.
My M seems to feel some deeper ownership of those marks, of my ass……of me. It’s a confidence in himself and in us that transends any fear and worry about his health, meant to remind us both that this is what it is, no matter the circumstance. We are solid.
I love you, M. Thank you for the reminders.