coming home

I pull in to the driveway, tired, not from physical fatigue but from a week of caring for mother and sorting through the childhood I once lived.

Amanda appears on the front porch. “About time you got home,” she says. She wears a smile and tight jeans. She seems ever more beautiful than when I left her.

“I’m a mess,” I say.

“Yes you are.”

“I was so tired this morning, overslept. Had to rush out to get to the airport. Mother still wanted to talk — after all our time together, somehow she still had things to say — and I wasn’t able to do my hair and makeup—“

Amanda interrupts: “How about a kiss first.”

I take a deep breath and oh so willingly place my arms over her shoulders and lean close. We pause there, face to face, and we kiss, lips wet, soft, lingering in the longing that my short absence has yielded. Her arms wrap around my waist. We kiss again, a kiss of both passion and possession, each of us holding what we have in each other. She pulls me in tight, and our clothed breasts flatten into each other, and her lips take mine in another slow kiss.

I lay my head against her and close my eyes.

Later, over wine, I say, “I have missed you.” It’s a statement of the obvious, but it could mean many things. One misses another in different ways. I mean “all of the above.”

Amanda offers a slight nod. She knows. She says nothing, but it is a silence of closeness not distance. She does not commence talk about what’s been going on in her life or pepper me with further questions about my mother. She and I have talked on the phone about mother several times while I have been away, so there’s no point to more of that.

We sit in the quiet, our selves re-merging.

In the evening we go on a walk. Front road. She keeps me dressed. It feels good to be collared again. She doesn’t leash me. Perhaps she is just gentling me back into my slavery.

She asks, “Were you a good girl?”

We both know what that means. “Yes,” I say. “I never touched myself.”


“I didn’t say I was happy about that.”

She laughs.

“Well, full confession: one night I rested my hand on my upper thigh near my pussy. I was close. But I didn’t.”

“You should have called me. Maybe I would have granted you permission.”

“No you wouldn’t have,” I say.

“You’re right,” she replies, amused.

It had been a warm day, but the night is cool — we’ve crossed over into autumn. The dusk settles in on us, but there are clear skies with a bright moon. I reach for Amanda’s hand, and she gives it. We walk now hand-in-hand.

Later Amanda asks, “Did anyone come on to you?”

She says it with a light tone, and I realize she’s being facetious, at least slightly so. “Not sure that would be likely to happen.”

“You’re so naïve about yourself that way.”

“Is that why you asked it?”

“Yes. I like playing with your lack of self-awareness.”

“You just like playing with me, period.”

“True. You’re a fun toy. Fun and naïve.”

“Well… naïve or not, I mostly had connection only with doctors. And it seems, go figure, they are kinda busy with other things.”

“So you think.”

“Well, no one came on to me.”

“Surprising. And a pity. Doctors have needs too.”

I’m laughing. “I assure you I have come back to you a virgin.”

“So to speak,” she says.

“So to speak.”

“I never doubted, of course,” Amanda says. “Just protecting my property.”

I smile, happy to be that property of hers, once again in the flesh.

Saturday night she takes me into her bed.

Naked we hold each other. She holds onto me like her prized property, and I hold onto her like salvation. Yet this time we are as equals, Amanda and Shae, lovers. Our breasts dance, our lips part, and I finger her to a juicy climax. She has missed me too.

Sometimes sex is the love itself, and other times it is a symbolic expression of the deeper love that already has happened. Our intercourse had been happening ever since I stepped out of the car.

I feel her tongue slide firmly into me, my vagina so very wet for her.

I shudder.

I come.

I come home.

6 thoughts on “coming home

  1. Beautiful, a reprise of your relationship with Amanda. Seems terms like Mistress and slave only partially characterise your relationship. But I guess that’s true for many relationships, kinky or vanilla.

    Liked by 1 person

Leave a Reply

Fill in your details below or click an icon to log in: Logo

You are commenting using your account. Log Out /  Change )

Google photo

You are commenting using your Google account. Log Out /  Change )

Twitter picture

You are commenting using your Twitter account. Log Out /  Change )

Facebook photo

You are commenting using your Facebook account. Log Out /  Change )

Connecting to %s