Anxiety had been constantly my companion all week. I’m an anxious bean to start with, but add in high dose steroid medication and things get…intense. And I’ve been on the high dose steroid medication since the New Year. Sometimes I’m able to push it down and ignore it fairly efficiently and other times I feel it constantly yanking on my skirt, distracting me with questions and worries that really make very little sense but enough sense that they *could* be real.

So I had spent my week telling myself ‘It’s just the anxiety. Everything is fine. All is good. Don’t panic.’ Approximately 50 thousand million times a day.

When I hit the weekend (consensually, of course) I was relieved to have that anxiety level drop down. Kinkaversary celebrations kept me occupied on the Friday and Saturday morning I woke with a smile on my face. There was anxiety still, pulling on my skirts about getting to the coach station on time, a pretty run of the mill kinda worry that I’m pretty good at controlling…by arriving everywhere stupidly early. It’s the other questions, the deep biting ones that I’d been fielding all week that had my stomach tumbling and turning uncomfortably. I don’t want to list them all here but they basically boil down to one question. Am I too much?

The first leg of my journey, the skirt yanking continued, disrupting me from remembering the fun times I’d had with H before and anticipating the fun times to come. The further I got into my journey, the easier it got to ignore.  Practically, the worries about being late faded as I got onto my coach and took my seat. Emotionally, the worries about my inadequacies and annoying tendencies were buried under a deluge of excited joy. I was a matter of hours away from seeing H again.

My smile grew wider and wider the closer I got to my destination. I funnelled all my energy into the excitement of seeing H again. I recalled memories of previous visits, the funny bits and the filthy bits and by the time I reached Leeds bus station I was smiling like a prize winner.

I was a prize winner. I was minutes away from seeing my kitty.

Walking into their house, greeting their housemate with hugs and hellos, I was free of all the worries that had been bogging me down. I had timed my arrival pretty damn well as H wandered down stairs moments later with just a towel around their waist.

Oh, lucky me.

Our first embrace was a wet one. They were fresh from the shower and I was just very excited. A few minutes later H headed to go upstairs. I followed them.

“No, no. You’re staying down here.”

I pouted.

“I need to get dressed and if you come up you’ll distract me.” I had my arms around them and they turned into my embrace.

“Are you sure you don’t want distracting?” I sweetly replied, kissing their neck, nibbling and nipping on their shoulder.

“I’m very good at it.”

They went limp in my arms as I took my exploratory nibbles to a more bitey level. From gentle moans came a higher, more urgent groan that I hadn’t heard before and really wanted to hear more of.

However, they showed some exemplary will power, removed themselves from me and headed up the stairs. Even as I whimpered.

I whimpered more when they pushed the towel lower, so I could see more of their delicious derriere.

I clung to the bottom of the stair rail, holding myself back. I had been told to stay downstairs. I had to do as I was told.

Then they whipped the towel off completely and all I wanted to do was charge up the stairs and bite their bottom. I didn’t.  I did however shout after them:

“I want it noted that I’m being very good!”

Because good girls get rewarded.

When a fully dressed H came back downstairs I watched them cook. We chatted easily about this, that and the other, laughing and smiling, casually sharing bits from our lives, slowly revealing more of ourselves to each other.

I somehow ended up pinned against the kitchen wall under a kiss that demanded my all, every inch of me, every thought. It was a kiss that didn’t stop at the lips. A kiss that used all their body, all my body and all the space around and between. It consumed, it burned, it left me light headed.

“Dunno what you’re doing,” they said, casually stirring noodles, “I’m just cooking.”

And of course I blushed. Standing there so incredibly turned on and reminded of the first time I met H when they had ravaged me then questioned me in quite the similar way. Leaving me blushing and needy and wet.

I hid my blushes behind my cardigan. They just laughed.

We sat with H’s housemate and her boyfriend to enjoy the food H had prepared for us. Damn, H can cook. Each bite of delicious stir fry told a different flavour story, I discovered different notes of yum and my mouth zinged with happiness.

Conversation flowed easily.  H showed them my t-shirt design. I had a little Pusheen peeping out of a little breast pocket waving and saying Hi. They then got me to tell them what my son had said about me wearing it to visit them.

“You can’t do that! Poor Pusheen. He’ll be forever disturbed by the things he sees!”

My son is grown up (though tries not to show it) and has seen some of the marks H has left on me before, hence his concern for Pusheen’s innocence.

When my bowl was empty, my attention moved to my other consuming hunger and I reached out my hand, quite casual like, on the table towards H.

I was delighted when they took my hand and squeezed it, answering my call for their touch. From there on in, the touching got more and well, more. They leant over and kissed me, got up and played with my hair for a bit, which I thoroughly enjoyed. Makes me instantly submissive, to have their fingers entangled in my hair, to feel it tugged, bunched up in their hand.  They sat down and put their leg up on mine. Whilst flashing me a view of their pretty red knickers under their pretty purple skirt. Rawwr.

They put both legs up on mine for a while, as I stroked up and down, pressing up above their knee, under the skirt, around it, enjoying touching them. There was more kissing and a comment about us being so cute (which we are, totally) closely followed by:

“Should we make ourselves scarce, so you can fuck?”

H feigned innocence.

“We’re only kissing!”

“Yeah, but that quickly leads to you being horny and fucking and we don’t need to see that. We’ll go upstairs.” Their housemate said matter of factly.

Isn’t it lovely to have such understanding friends?

The low-lying lust boiled over as soon as we were alone. There was a closeness, a hunger, an all-encompassing desire that exploded in bursts of violent affection. My t-shirt was thrown off (protecting Pusheen!) a dagger held to my throat (very wooden but still kinda terrifying in the ‘what if they had a real one in their hand’ kinda way) and compliments on my nice bra. I’ve worn it a couple of times before, maybe they’ve not noticed, I don’t hold it against them.

Admiring glances in the mirror, a deep, soul shattering bite to my shoulder and growls. Fuck, how I love H’s growls. And the scent of my cunt. I could smell it the moment my skirt was lifted, I’m sure they could too because a few pushes later I was sprawled on the sofa, legs spread around them. H dragged me to the edge so they could rip my knickers aside and bury their face in my cunt.

Fuck, I think I came then, just from their mouth on me. I was so turned on. The world became smaller then. Me and H, that was it. Their tongue buried inside me then lashing against my clit, the powerful suction the intensity of purpose. Moments later they kissed me. I could taste as well as smell my arousal and I revelled in it. In the passion between us.

Breast pulled from bra, nipple sucked and bitten and consumed until I couldn’t think nor feel anything but the pulsing need for more, more, more.

Kisses, H biting my lips together so hard taking my mouth, marking it theirs. Their fingers inside me.  My skirt discarded (when? How? Fuck knows, did I care?) Being fucked, fingered, adored.

Then degraded as their foot pressed my face against the sofa arm. Their toes dug into my cheek, holding me down, for them to admire, to do as they will.  I was released, they moved, never stopping giving me pleasure.

I was in ecstasy and then they bit my stomach, their fingers still pumping inside of me, ecstasy exploded into a cacophony of orgasmic intent. I was caught between pleasure and pain, pinned to the spot, submerged in rolling, passionate bliss. Then with their spare hand they found the pressure point in the centre of my chest and pressed down.

I was coming before that point, I was really fucking coming after it. I didn’t believe I could reach a higher intensity of pleasure but there I was. Transfigured.

It hurt and I couldn’t breathe. I wasn’t sure if I was screaming or silent, if I was moving or still. I was in my body, feeling all the sensation but completely out of it too. I was there at the electrifying tip of the pinnacle of passion, balanced perfectly, held confidently, surrounded by H and free to feel a whole universe of orgasmic delight.

When we were writing to each other, before April, intensifying the anticipation of satisfying our lusts, H wrote something that made me fall in love with them a little even back then.

I want to tear you apart then put you back together again.

And in that act they had torn me to pieces, broken me down, taken me completely apart and exposed my very core then put me back together, restored me to more than I was to begin with.

It was the sentiment of wanting to put me back together again that melted my heart when they wrote the words, it is that care, that love which makes my time with H so incredibly special. They love to hurt me (understatement, eh?) but they do it to build me up. To add more shine to my sparkle. It’s not all about breaking me, controlling me, dominating me (though elements of that are most assuredly and enjoyably there) it’s something much more affirming. I become free to be me without worry or doubt or concern.

I don’t even know if they realise they’re doing it. That every touch, every kiss, every word washes away the dirt of my anxious mind. Erases the questions that doubt my self-worth, dissolve the conviction that I’m just not good enough, that I’m bound to fuck it all up sometime soon and wipes away the fear of being too needy, too wanting, altogether too much.

I find solace in their sadism, take comfort in their loving touches, find peace in their puns.

I’m so very grateful. How do I even begin to show them how much I appreciate that?


Pusheen sent a message back after a day with H and I…