I have been involved in two formal D/s relationships in my life. Both of my Dominants used this phrase often, and it was meaningful to me with both.
But. Also. And.
It is one thing to say those words.
It is another for them to be true.
In one dynamic, my Dominant said that phrase to me often, and at one point in our dynamic, I was also prohibited from climaxing without that person’s permission. Fair enough, right? That’s hot as hell, and it got us both off when he said it when he was fucking me.
He said the words. I said them back to him. I only came when he told me I could.
She and I didn’t set out for my cunt to belong to her.
We didn’t even say the words until long after it did.
The very first time she touched me sexually I was bleeding. No one in my life had ever touched me while I was bleeding before because that was absolutely a hard limit for me. And it wasn’t like, sexy, thin, young white girl spotting tiny little bright red drops of blood on some lacy white panties.
It was winter. I was wearing a sweater dress. With tights underneath. And a pad.
We were in her loft. And her mouth was on mine and her hands on my hips and then her knee between my thighs and I was gasping and pulling away and looking at the floor and saying in mortification, “It’s not really… you shouldn’t… not today…” And she was knowing immediately that I was on my period, and that I was too ashamed even to make the words.
Mostly I remember the gentleness. I remember her not being like, “I will touch your cunt whenever I want.” In fact, that was never a thing she said or I offered. Because she knew my history. Because she knew where those words would take me to.
It was probably the unsexist thing she had ever done in her life, that night.
I was almost out of my mind with shame, but she was so fucking gentle, and so fucking slow, and so fucking… she wanted to touch me. Even then. Even with that. Even while I was… you know.
We didn’t set out for my cunt to belong to her.
That came later.
It came the night she wanted to fist me and I told her I was… that she couldn’t… that I was you don’t understand, J, like, REALLY bleeding. It came when she went to the kitchen and came back with a stack of towels and two tissues.
Listen, even then I didn’t know. I thought she was going to lay me down on the towels and like rub me through my panties and the towels were just in case I bled through.
When I felt her fingers on the string I thought I was going to die.
Actually die. I couldn’t make words. She could read the please god don’t in the tension in the muscles of my thighs, and in the tightness of my fingers wrapped around her wrists.
She wasn’t rushing. She was never rushing. That’s what I remember most, now.
I wept so hard when she finally slid it out into the tissues she had waiting in her hand and wrapped it up out of my sight.
I understood she thought it didn’t bother her but I knew better that no one alive could not be totally disgusted by the sight of… you know… that...
And then she came, with one fist in me and the other around her cock, jerking off to the sight of her hand disappearing in my… you know… even while I was…
Except I think even then it already was starting not to be my ... you know... but hers.
It came when she put me on my back on her sunny bed in the sleepy suburban house she first lived in in LA, and gently spread my legs and even more gently pressed a warm, damp cloth between them against the small burn from where the waxer had put the wax on too hot and left a tiny little half-inch burn right inside the crease of my right labia when I was getting waxed the day before I flew out to see her.
It came each time she gently pressed the Neosporin against the burn, all the mornings and nights she did that for the rest of the time I was there, first thing after I’d showered in the mornings before she went to work and last thing before we went to bed at night, no matter how tired she was. Not for fucking. Not for sexy times. Because it was hers. To care for.
It came the time she told me she wanted to always be the one to change my tampon when we were together and I almost vomited down the front of her shirt at the thought of that becoming part of my life, of her seeing, over and over and over, you know, that.
It came the afternoon all those months later when I got out of the shower and wrapped myself up in the towel and pulled a tampon out of my drawer and hesitated and then slowly, oh so slowly, walked into my room with it tucked in my hand behind my back and stood in front of her with my burning eyes lowered and finally thrust it at her in my shaking little hand and I heard her breath catch and her whispered, “Thank you, baby.”
It came when she knelt—she knelt—in front of me and slowly unwrapped it.
It came when she gently stroked me with the applicator, over and over and over, and some horrible, revolting monster inside me started to… something started to… and it wasn’t blood… and I wept, and she wrapped her strong butch arm around my hips and whispered against my belly words of praise and pride at this horrible, awful, revolting thing that was happening right between my legs, right in front of her face. Literally, in front of her face.
It came when she worked the applicator slowly in and out of me over and over and over in the rhythm we learned together, and whispered, “Daddy can fuck her beautiful little cunt with anything, sweetheart. Not just the scary things.”
It came that spring afternoon when I climaxed seven, nine, eleven times from the tampon between her fingers as she worked it into me.
It came the night that fall when I ran to her linen closet and grabbed stacks of towels and ran even faster back into her bedroom and started arranging them across her bed and begged her as politely as a girl can for a good, hard, fucking, and she grinned that cocky grin at me and went for her cock and harness and my cunt clenched so hard it made the cramps momentarily stop as I watched her turn around from her armoire with her cock gripped in her fist, already stroking herself fully hard to give her girl the pounding she'd taught her girl she never had to be ashamed of wanting.
It came seven hours later when we flipped the nightlight on to look for the bottle of water and I saw the insides of her thighs literally smeared with blood from her harness almost down to her knees, and I burst into tears and I bolted from her bed and tried to literally run away from her and she pulled me against her and rocked me and whispered to me how special and brave and beautiful I was and that if it wouldn’t mortify me so badly I would never speak to her again, she’d take a picture of her thighs and hang it over her bed with the line drawings of the beautiful naked girls that adorned her bedroom, because it was beautiful as hell and hot as fuck, her girl’s blood smeared all over her Daddy’s thighs, and not just from the fucking but from the sheer, raw vulnerability and bravery and badassery of a girl whose cunt belonged to her Daddy, even when it was hard.
And it did.
And the saying of those words really had nothing at all to do with the truth of it.
SOURCE: https://fetlife.com/users/1712492/posts/5546295