It would only be a few hours before he got here. Less than a day. So soon, but still so very far away. My heart was quite animated and fluttering about in my chest, bouncing off of my ribcage like a wind up doll running into a wall. Just constant movement in all of my body. I was completely unable to stay still.
His flight was to land at 6:35 PM. I wanted to go meet him at the airport to welcome him home but he said it was not needed, "I will get the car and be at the front door before you even know it, Kitten. I want you to prepare yourself for me." I started to question how I should prepare, but he didn't elaborate, simply said, "You could be in rags and smell, so long as you are comfortable, that is the way I want you. I want you to feel beautiful, and that can mean being in your old prom dress," I giggled, imaging myself dressing up in the gaudy metallic pink, Cinderella-style dress. My giggle turned to a full belly laugh which brought out a chuckle from him. He had his moments when he, too, giggled, but not when he was in this mood. In this mood, he was serious, with a twinkle of mischief lurking in his mind. My love is spectacular about that. When he is being my Dom, he is my Dom. That is not to say that we don't burst out in laughter, but it is more like he is shifting skins, being who he feels comfortable being in any given moment. In that moment, he was in his dominant mindset- protective of everything involving me, from my body to my mental image of myself, guiding me in a way that did not make me feel insignificant. He always had a knack with that, treating me like I was the most precious tiny thing that he could hold in the palm of his hand, stronger than a diamond and more cherished than all of the sparkly things in the world. "Or in boxers and one of my shirts," he continued. "I want you to feel as beautiful as I see you all of the time."
That, for me, was a challenge. Feeling beautiful has always been a challenge for me. Sure, I could feel pretty on occasion, but there was always someone I saw that just seemed more beautiful than me. My love constantly assures me that there is no such woman, and I truly hope one day that I can believe him, but until then, he has agreed to disagree with me on this, so long as I try to see his side. That is what has always felt so unique about us. Each and every BDSM story I read has to do with a submissive girl giving up her say, giving up her right to disagree. For us, that has never been the case. For us, it is a mutual decision, and I decide to take the submissive role, as that is my most natural state when I am in a safe place. You would never know this from meeting me in person. I am a natural born leader, but it takes someone with such a strong will, a deep soul and maybe just as many leadership skills as me to rule me. And I have met one such man. He is my love, he is my dom, he is my fiance.
You may question if our relationship is even real, and may even doubt it, but if you do, then you miss out the beauty of it. My submission is not forced, nor was he the one to initiate this sort of lifestyle.
I have never heard a story where it is the sub's doing that play begins, although my story comes close to it. It all started before we were dating. We had had what we thought would just be a one night stand, a very drunken one night stand, but instead of fucking all night, we talked all night. Talked about everything, just laying in one another's arms. Of course, we did fuck (and somehow managed to lose the condom) but that was not what was important. We spoke, we connected, a silver thread connected us and with each phrase from one of our mouths, this string grew even more taught. At the time, we could not figure out what it was, and we knew we would not have the chance to see where it would go. We're spectacular creatures who have known each other for years, but who finally hook up 3 nights before my love had to leave to go back to Europe, while I was stuck here, in New York with no other chance to see him. Luckily, fate had some hand in this because I was able to study abroad, thus making it easier for us to see each other. Love is much simpler to chase when there isn't an entire ocean between two people.
But why it happened, I did not know. I mused over this fact as I sat in my house, fidgeting and antsy. All I knew was that I was happy beyond belief that it had and that soon the ocean that separated us would be a slightly distant memory. That silver thread was now more like a rope now, a million tiny little particles banded together to keep our hearts strung to one another.
My clothes were picked. I wanted to be a piece of art for him to mold into his liking. I wanted to start with some beauty and have him draw the rest out of me. I could make myself believe I looked beautiful, but would barely feel it until he arrived. The TV show I had put on to distract myself quickly slipped into a blur of movement that I could not be bothered with paying attention to. My mind was its very own TV screen of memory. In those few hours, I must have relived every moment we had spent together. No, that is a lie, but I definitely relived all of the very best ones.
It amazes me sometimes how tiny little gestures can explode into galaxies of meaning. The first night we managed to get together was at his going away party. I had spent the night slightly jealous, vying for his attention, even though he had another girl on his lap. I did not know what I was doing, but I had a goal. I was going to get laid. But I was not the only person with a goal, because on the very same night I made the mistake over dinner of mentioning, "You know, I can drink and drink and drink, but never get drunk." I had just started to share an eggplant rollatini with the roommate of my love, who at the time was only a friend I kind of knew. His roommate nearly choked on the mozzarella covered glob in his mouth, "Oh, we are changing that tonight! Any time I see you in my house, you better have a drink in your hand!" And so it was agreed, I was to be totally shit faced that night.
A few months later, I learned the difference between drunk and absolutely shit faced. I never reached shit faced that night, but I did get nicely drunk. I was swaying on my feet and needed help from the various men in the room to stand. What I did not know was that my love had been wanting to get to me since he picked me up at the train station and crammed me in the backseat of his roommate's jeep, with a mutual friend. At some point in the night, I did end up in his arms, and I did end up with him. We were on the porch in the backyard, the crickets were chirping. We had kissed once inside and then again and could not seem to stop. I felt safe in his arms, safe and happy.
"I knew I would end up with you tonight," he whispered to me, his foreign accent alien in my ear. "Who said you have me for the night?" I teased and tried to slip out of his grasp. We spun on the porch, a dance of flirtation and lust until finally my back was to the side of the house, his hands firmly under my ass. He lifted me and pinned me against the wall. For a moment, the tension wrought from that act buzzed between us. I must have gasped, completely shocked that he would do something like that, but before I could utter a word, his lips were hot against my ear again, "Because," he drawled into my very being, "I always get what I want." And with that, he kissed me and sealed the envelope that would hold our life stories in it from that point on.
At this point, I am sure you are laughing and saying I am a liar about being the cause to initiate it with that very clearly dominant act, and my clear submission. That night, though, was fairly innocent, devoid of any extremely kinky fun. Kink, however, could not keep away from us.
After our night together and many e-mails and conversations, he decided to google my various online handles. Without intending to, he struck gold, finding a collection of erotic stories I had written. "I found something very interesting today..." he mentioned to me in a chat, which was already a nightly occurrence despite the fact that we had agreed that courting from different continents could never work. "I found your sexy stories," he teased. My heart began to pound because I knew in my profile I had listed many things that I was not ready to reveal yet. "Oh? What did you think?" I asked coyly. "Well, I loved the stories, but was more interested in your profile." Oh god, panic time, my world is shattering. "What about it?" was what I typed instead. "I share a lot of the same likes as you. Especially exploring BDSM. I never have before and it has always interested me."
And that is how it began. As I sat and reflected on it, I laughed to myself, admiring the extreme distance we had traversed together. My clock chimed and being so wrapped up inside of my own thoughts, I nearly jumped out of my skin at the sound. 1 more hour until he was to land. I got up, grinning fit to split my face, and walked into the bathroom. I studied my reflection in the mirror before I heaved a sigh and turned the shower on. I quickly washed myself, carefully inspecting the shaving job I had done on my legs earlier. My pussy still had some slight peach fuzz on it, though. I knew that he would want to shave it himself.
It is amazing how something which one person could hate so much, like shaving, can be pure delight to someone else when given the privilege to do. I remember the first time I was shaved by him.
I had been shaving for nearly as long as I could remember. When I was with my first lover I had wanted to experiment with shapes in my pubic hair, but failed miserably, ending up with a slightly triangular shape that was lopsided and uneven. Rather than trying to fix it, I shaved it all off and it has been that way ever since. While it is something I choose to do, I hate doing it.
