A memory that won't go away

I only played with Him once a long time ago.

He would come, infrequently, to the Labyrinth -- the now defunct BDSM club that we used to frequent in Denver. The word was that He had a wife who didn't share His interests, but who occasionally tolerated Him indulging, as long as she didn't have to know very much -- so He would show up at the Laby. Always, He wore a mask. I never saw His face. He was tall and thin and elegant in his manners and in his movements. It was as if He owned the space He came into, and as if there were no one else except Himself and whoever He chose to play with. I watched Him from a distance, and barely breathed. I am sure I was not the only one.

Finally, after months of watching, I asked my husband, who was my dominant then, if he would ask Him to play with us...

They tied me. Standing, spread-eagled, and blind-folded to a metal frame.

He touched. Lightly mostly. And everywhere. And randomly. Slowly. The curve of a hip, or a breast. Along the length of my throat, and then up the inside of my thigh to... And my breath would catch and I'd strain against the bonds and He would stop. And I would wait and strain to hear or feel or sense where He was. And then He'd be back, someplace different, with and edge this time, or a slap, or a tickle. And then again. And again. And again. Feet, cheek, back, arm, earlobe. I've never felt like that before -- or since. Ecstasy. And agony. Need that I couldn't meet except under His touch. A memory burned forever into my flesh and cells.

Except that He haunts me still... An hour that will not go away.

swan