Briefest note from the briefest weekend...

Decadence has a whole new face: Breakfast. In. Bath.

Thou art too kind, my heart. ~winks~

Tyger tyger, burning bright...

Afterward, I'm lying on my stomach, head resting on the backs of my hands, breathing slow as the endorphine rush seeps away. I can still feel his hands in every print that paints the white canvas of my skin, still hear the gentle slap, faint whistle, and quick snap of his flogger's cord tails. The effervescence of the sting is gone; what remains, I savor.

And a year ago, if you'd told me that I would miss these sensations as they faded, I'd have raised an eyebrow at you and questioned your sanity.
But I do. I miss them and I look forward to them.
Who'd have thought?
~~~~~~~~~~~
The scent of beef, onions and cheese brings me out of reverie. He sets a plate down beside my waist and then arranges himself and his ashtray at the foot of the bed, lights a cigarette and settles in. "What about you?" I ask, rolling onto my side. "You're just going to watch?"

He exhales his first breath of smoke and shakes his head. "I'll get to it; you go on."

A moment more's hesitance is met with a firm golden-green gaze, so I pick up the steaming sandwich and begin. He watches every bite. The richness of the meat overtakes my self-consciousness quickly, and I'm back in a haze of sensation again. Food has never tasted this good; I add it to the list of things for which I'm grateful.
~~~~~~~~~
Later, I'm eyeing my hair in the mirror. "Mussed" is an understatement--the brunette cloud floating round my head is a tangled testament to what a bad idea it is to go back to a welcoming bed before drying one's newly washed hair. Sighing, I toss it over my shoulder and begin the character-building process of brushing it into something like order.

"Let me," he says, stepping in behind me and opening a hand for the brush.

"I can get it," I answer, working patiently at a knot. For one, I've never known a man who had a clue how to properly brush long hair, even the ones who had long hair themselves. For another, I don't see how he could unravel this nest any more easily than I could myself and would just as soon spare him the hassle.

"I know you can. But I want to." Those gorgeous eyes ask please?
I hand him the brush. "Start from the ends."
"I know..."

And by God, he does.
I close my eyes and sink into the soothing hiss of plastic bristles through hair, the gentle caress of bristletips to scalp, the calming weight of his hand behind the brush, smoothing down flyaways...

"I'm pampering you again, aren't I? I can tell by the smile on your face."
"Mmhm. You mean you're not?"
"Nope." hissss, smoothe; hissss, smoothe "This is just what you do."
"What you do..."
"Alright, what I do, then. I love you."
hisss, smoothe; hissss, smoothe.
"I love you, too..."
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
Sometimes the Beauty hits me, and I'm floored.

It's not about the hairbrushing. It's not about breakfast in bed. It's not even about the delightful kinky sex. Those are good things associated with it, but they're not where it comes from, they're more like results of it.

It's about learning someone, about getting to know them, not just the person you think they might be. It's about learning yourself and sharing that. About sharing time and energy with someone with whom nothing is taboo. In a bond like that, consentual pain and unexpected tenderness...they're the same thing, both equally beautiful.

William Blake's Tyger and Lamb, both in the same skin.

And I'm humbled and honoured to be a part of that.
Ti amo, Tesoro.