We’ve reached Part 5, and we’re not out of the kitchen yet. Some of the stories I’ve told in this blog have been partly about self-doubt and questioning whether I have the right to hit a woman, even if she is submissive and wants me to. There’s none of that in this story. I’d sorted those issues, and I felt confident that I had a reasonable set of skills and at least some ideas about the flow between doms and submissives, and how to manage it and ride with it at the same time. And the point of this story is that I turned out still to have plenty left to learn.
So I’d been researching a story on gang violence, and had been interviewing Raylene, a woman who’d spent a while in a white supremacist gang for stupid reasons. She’d eventually felt her soul and brain come back on, and some things with her mother had healed over, and she’d left the gang. But, maybe because talking seriously about intense issues is very intimate, things between us, in her mother’s kitchen, became more sexual than journalistic.
I found myself sitting at the kitchen with her standing in front of me, and my head inside her jersey, under which she wore nothing but a tattoo. I was kissing her tattoo, that I didn’t like so much, and her belly, that I liked enthusiastically. I was thinking about how that belly would feel when I lay on it.
It would feel pretty god, and I’d feel it under me pretty soon, I was thinking.
A long time passed, with Raylene’s warm midriff trembling under my mouth. She said, “Your beard…”
She didn’t mean she thought it was a cool beard, though she wasn’t laughing at it either. She was just telling me that she could feel it scratch and stroke her skin at the spot I was focussing on, just below her navel, and it was welcome. And so was I. She put her hands on my shoulders and kneaded and stroked the muscles of my back and neck.
I thought that I was making the point reasonably clear: if I was going to appreciate this tattoo thing properly, and if she wanted even bettewr kissing, then those jeans would have to come down.
It was so obvious, in fact, that I didn’t ask her. I undid her belt, button and zip, and tugged downwards.
Raylene left her hands on my shoulders and sucked in her tummy cooperatively like a good girl. Er, like a good girl, I wondered? I wasn’t supposed to have that thought in vanilla contexts. Where’d that “good girl” come from?