Something like confetti

I needed it. I was unravelling, starting at my cunt and then jumping to my mind, I could feel everything falling away. If he didn't fuck me I was going to break. Something. I tried to manage it on my own, this wasn't a selfish want that I could have hopped in the shower and squelched. I tried. 

Master had mercy on me.

After what I felt was an eternity of begging, with vivid descriptions of my needs and relating fantasies, he took me out of my box and verbally forced me into the spreader bar. At which point the sensual language is temporarily suspended as there is no sexy way to say, "and then he slapped mercilessly at my helpless sloppy wet cunt with a blue pool noodle until I was a blubbering mess of drool and cum." 

And then he bent me over the bed, still in the spreader bar, my legs spread even farther apart by a wide cushion, and fucked me thoroughly and well. I begged to come almost from the beginning, but I rarely got the words out. He always seemed to know when I needed to, and several times preceded my verbal request with an order to come now. I felt magnificent, my legs were held spread, but it was the perfect, delicious tangible kind of helpless that made every pain feel good, and every good thing feel better, and I told him that he is a genius because I didn't have words while he fucked me for how great it was. 

When he said it was his turn, the only perfect answer I knew was Master. I hope I got a yes in there, but it didn't seem to need any explanation in my mind.  The word Master meant he didn't need any more information from me. It implied that everything he decided was acceptable, even welcome. It implied that he was the Master and I did not make decisions, only lived in awe of the things that happened, like an object, a slave, a pet that begins to smell the roast after the master has been cooking it already to perfection. The word Master implied that my body was listening to His orders, not mine. I was telling my body nothing, and he was playing me like a musical instrument, and knew every possible note that he would hit, and what it would add up to, what song or concert it would, be when he was done. 

This was some seriously mind blowing sex. 

Which is ironic? Because I was losing my mind before the sex, and now I seem to have it back.

Did I mention that I now have a hickey on my cheek to remind me every time I look in the mirror that I belong to him, that he owns me. He will be gone to self this weekend (Thursday - Monday) and it will be a huge comfort to have a more than daily reminder that I am his and he claims me.