One year on
I’m lying in bed, snuggled up behind you, playing with your hair. Running my fingers over your scalp, scritching behind your ears, nuzzling the nape of your neck. It always makes you sleepy and quiet. I like that.
My mind wanders as I wind your messy boy hair round my fingers. I wonder if our babies will have your tangle of thick brown curls, or my fine red-blonde silk. I hope for the former. I imagine having a mini you scooped up in my arms, stroking his hair as he dozes off, just like I’m doing now with you. I’m sure it will feel just as perfect, just as much like home. And I’m sure he’ll be a nightmare to wake in the mornings, just like you.
I wonder how we’d be as parents together. Would we switch roles? Me, the bad guy and you the laid-back, playful partner-in-crime? I can easily see it happening, so bossy am I. And you’ll always be young at heart. But how would that affect us? Having to swing from submissive partner to Bossy Mommy might not be too easy for me — and I might feel a tad resentful. I know, though, that you’ll do whatever it takes to make me feel happy and safe. You always do.
You’re making sleepy little noises now, and they bring me back to earth. I consider telling you to switch off the light before you fall asleep properly and I have to wake you — I hate the way you jolt awake, half-panicked, confused. It’s only for a second, but it makes me feel horribly guilty. I don’t like disturbing your peace. Just as I’m about to speak, I spot a stray amongst your mane of messy hair… a single grey. I smile. The contrast amuses me — with your tangle of little-boy curls, you look like a mischievous toddler sometimes, when the mood strikes you. My boy is greying though. How strange.
It reminds me that we’re both growing, not in age, but in experience together. We’re not growing up, we’re growing together, closer and closer every day. You’re still surprising me as a Dom, coming up with fresh evils to torture me with all the time. I never thought I’d get more than what I asked for from you — or should I say, more than what I bargained for. I was always convinced you were just trying to please me. I couldn’t be more delighted that you’re finding ways to please yourself, too. That my pleasure isn’t always foremost in your mind. With time, you’ve embraced your role and made it fit you. I admire you for that, and I can’t wait to see what more is to come with the addition of a few more grey hairs.
It’s strange to think of us as old, though. All this sexiness and fetishism is such a youthful pursuit… no-one likes to think of pensioners clad in PVC, drooling over bit gags. It’s a terrible shame that we de-sexualise the elderly; it makes me unable to imagine how our relationship will be when we grow old. Will you still spank me? Will I bruise even more easily? Will we have to retire the floggers and paddles for fear of breaking brittle bones? All horrid stereotypes, I know… but the discipline defines our relationship and keeps it running so smoothly that I wonder how we’d be together if one day we just stopped. It’s not all about the sex, of course. It is about the sex, though. Sex is the basis, the building block. I guess I have to trust that the walls built on that foundation will be strong enough to stand alone when we both have heads full of greys.
You’re dozing off now, and so am I. I love these quiet moments we have together and fight to keep my eyes open, so I can hear your steady, soft breathing as you fall asleep.
I don’t know if any of my half-asleep imaginings will happen. Who knows if we’ll have babies, if we’ll tease eachother about grey hairs. All I know is that I can’t wait to find out.
Happy Anniversary, baby.
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