One thing after another

So many things, many of them so small and fleeting as to be lost in the swell and rush of ongoing life… but they are important in their smallness.  In many ways they are the core of my reality.

Like the icy bite of cold as we walk from the store to the car and the way his arm feels warm and strong as I hold tight to it.  Or the way he communicates it is time to leave the second hand store by grabbing the back of my neck and abruptly shoving and steering me down the aisle and out the door… no words, just being taken and moved.  Somehow the sensation of that grip upon the back of my neck reduces me to jello. 

The sense of total happiness that comes from holding my brand new tiny granddaughter in my lap and she stubbornly holds onto sleep, deigning only to briefly open one eye and look at me for a second with that mysterious cloudy blue newborn eye and then takes a deep breath and lets out an audible sigh of satisfaction as she slips deeper into sleep.  

The way Master and I tend to laugh and laugh at the same silly things.  Last night he managed to stumble upon tentacle sex porn on the interwebs.  He had heard all along my tongue-in-cheek jokes about squids and tentacles when he pokes me with that evil flogger made from rubber jump ropes that I have named ‘the squid’, but he never really got the Hentai joke.  And the stuff he found on the internet was fake to the point of camp.  He and I were almost on the floor with hysteria at the improbable, patently fake rubber tentacles (often with the hand holding it inadvertently included in the shot) being clumsily poked at the girl that was clearly trying to assist the dead and limp things to attain some semblance of liveliness, while simultaneously trying to act (albeit badly) like she was struggling to escape.  But at the end I found out that part of the whole tentacle sex fetish seems to include about ten gallons of fake cum being squirted over the “victim”.  Yeck… not so much… did not know it involved drowning the girl in the end. 

And the other night, when I made a half hearted, somewhat comic approach to penis worship.  Master laughed and allowed me to try, but once again reminded me who is ultimately in charge of when and what goes on around here.  After he pushed me away from his stubbornly unresponsive penis, he laughed and referred to my kowtowing and over the top moans of enjoyment as “Peanut Worship”.  The slip of the tongue was so apropos that we both dissolved into laughter.

Fleeting moments strung together each distinct and as beautiful a crystal bead, one following the other, so easily overlooked, enjoyed and forgotten, like prayer beads, one slipping from my hand as the next finds its way into my palm.