Not everything in life always goes smoothly, no matter how carefully we try to control it. Last week I had the flu, I don’t recommend it, it did no favours for my professional, academic or personal life, but by the time Friday came around I was determined not to cancel my plans.
I’d left packing to the last minute, fallen asleep in the bath and had missed the first, second and third trains that I had planned to catch. Stood in my bedroom in just my underwear, I grabbed a fairly random collection of toys and clothes and stuffed them into my suitcase, cane sticking out of one corner like a flag pole missing its flag. Wayne came home just as I was contemplating calling a taxi and, after checking and re-chexking that I was REALLY ok to go away, he dropped me off at the station.
As yet I don’t know how to define my relationship with Ronnie but, given the fact I was prepared to engage in knife play with him, I’ll let you make your own conclusions. We had talked about it, imagijed a scenario where I entered the house and he was hiding in a darkened corner to grab me. He would throw me to the floor, pin me down and tie me up, threatening me with the knife if I didn’t obey. Knifes are one of the things which truely scare me, in the most delicious way. I hate roller coasters, but I imagine it’s a similar thing, the rush you get. We talked about him using the knife to cut off my clothes, something which I know can be risky – it’s harder than you think to cut through clothing – but given a new and sharp knife the risks were within acceptable limits. I send him a message detailing the items I’m wearing which are ok for him to cut and I catch my train.
He meets me at the station, he’s tall and gorgeous. I feel gross, with no make up on, my nose red and full of snot and my conversation punctuated by bouts of coughing but he looks after me. When we get back to his I am wrapped up in a blanket and fed lemsip with honey in a Winnie the Pooh mug. Somehow this escalated to the point where I was on the floor with my wrists tied behind my back with electrical tape and the same tape between my teeth as a gag. I remember the feeling of the knife against my skin, cold, not wanting to move in case I cut myself, I heard it before I realised what was happening as he sliced through the fabric of my shirt. My shirt wasn’t on the list of items it was ok for him to cut. So I am there bound and held at knife point when suddenly my faith in his ability to stick to agreed limits is cast into doubt. At first I try to put it aside as an innocent mistake but as I lie there it niggles at me.
Whether it was that, the sudden change from chilled to kink, the fact that I wasn’t my usual self, or a combination of the above I’m not sure, but the result was that I safe worded. Not just a “can we slow down” kind of safe word, but a “stop, Stop, STOP!”.
He cut me free and I broke down, tears running down my cheeks adding to my sexy snot face. He tried to hold me but I pulled v, I couldn’t stand to be touched. Presently I noticed that I was bleeding, a small cut, perhaps 3/4 of an inch on my thumb, it must have happened when he cut me free, the dangers of a sharp knife when the adrenaline starts flowing.
Eventually, I was able to accept his touch and he held me close and kissed me and told me that I was safe. Before we went to bed he made me another lemsip with honey, in the same Winnie the Pooh mug, and I slept well knowing he was there.
It didn’t go to plan, but it certainly did go.