Spilled Ink from the Vault

The light remains green. I’m not safe-wording, not saying I withdraw consent, merely that this did not feature in any of the scenarios I imagined, in any of my most hidden fantasies. 

I was prepared to hurt, and when I said make me cry, I meant take me to a level of physical pain that overrides my inability to feel it. Combine it with pleasure and shake it with ice like a classic cocktail.

What I meant was allow me to fall safely to a depth at which I will reward you with an offering of tears, tears that you earned by plumbing the darkness within you that calls to the darkness in me.

I wanted to watch you ply your craft, coax me to my limits and then past them.

I wanted you to get me drunk on the heady fumes of submission.

I wanted and expected a modicum of (after)care: the care a musician takes for their instrument, having played it, used it to create the melody they imagined, cleaning it down and packing it neatly in its case. Or the care of a workman for his tools, rinsing off the mud before it dries hard.

Consent draws the line between play and abuse, but respect draws the line between performance and candour.  I would not have settled for less than safety, but I did not expect protection.

You’re not wrong. A sadistic stranger should not be safer than the supposed love of my life. How is it that he was more a fantasy than you?