I keep looking at that one picture from that night, the one of my face while He had the plug in my ass. He told me that he came around to the front of the bed to take that picture, but my head was down. He ordered me to lift my head and I wailed a pathetic "no." He repeated the order and I lifted my head to look right at him. He snapped the picture.
I am on my hands and knees in the middle of the bed. My hair is hanging in my face, disheveled. I obviously look like I have been crying. The tops of my breasts are visible, as are the boots that I was wearing the whole time. My ribs are visible on my side. Usually it would make me happy to look so thin, but somehow in this picture it looks pathetic. I have never seen myself like this.
I can't figure out the look on my face in that picture. I see a hundred different things, and then sometimes I see nothing at all. There is a manner in which my look is completely blank and vacant. After all, I was somewhere else when the picture was taken. I might as well have been unconscious. But I look again and maybe I see fear, and despair and overwhelming hunger.
I cannot believe that I do not remember so much from that evening. He has never controlled me so much as to take my mind out of my body, give me as much pain or pleasure as he wants without my knowledge.
I asked him later, "Do you realize what you could have done to me at that moment?"
"What could I have done to you?"
"Anything." For a moment, that thought frightened me. Really, he could have done anything to me, taken anything, hurt me immeasurably. I trust him to keep me safe, but who would be watching over him at that moment?
My masochism is such that it gets carried away with itself at times. I get a taste of the pain, just a tiny morsel of it, and I want more, exponentially more. In my mind, my masochistic fantasies spiral in on themselves, spanks becoming body blows, scratches and bites becoming stab wounds. If my masochistic mind had its way, each encounter would intensify until I was completely destroyed, torn apart by his lust and his power. Obviously, my mind is out of control and it is for the best that He determines my desires. But what if he is out of control, drunk on his power over me?
All my concern was for naught. He explained to me that the amount of power he had over me at that moment increased his control over me but kept the power itself tightly contained. He spoke of his "laser focus" on the pain he was giving me - a precise ability to administer each blow or spank in the exact position he desired, to the exact intensity. He was everything that I was not - lucid to my floaty absence, restrained to my uncontrolled ambition. He was everything that I could not be and everything that I needed in that moment.