My words ABRUPTLY cut off when suddenly... the gentlest touch. So gentle I didn't know if I'd actually felt it.
But there it was again.
Yes, I definitely felt... something. So light, so soft and light I didn't recognize it at first.
A fingertip? One coated in extra wetness so it wouldn't drag against my soreness?
And then I DID recognize it.
And my nervous breaths turned into shocked panting.
Because up until that moment, I had only felt Zen's touch my nipples. I had only felt his making me shiver as it teased my ear. I had only felt his running along my own.
His tongue.
It was his tongue tracing sweet paths along my aching core.
And even though my panic reared up, even though I almost, almost jumped up to tell him he didn't have to do that, his softly growled "That's my good girl. You taste so good" made me melt even more to the ground.
I wanted to cry.
How could he be so sweet to me?
I'm always astonished at how... nice he is to me.
I'm supposed to be there to please him. I'm supposed to be the one making HIM feel like he's king of the world.
And yet when I'm self-deprecating, he doesn't just do that usual "friendly" thing people do—"That's not true. Don't say that!". He speaks to me in a way I have never in all my years been spoken to before. He seems to dissect my self-deprecation and turns it around so that I can logically see how wrong I am. Not pretty words or platitudes, no. Not from my Zen.
My anxious fingers will type: "I outdid myself, huh, Sir? I managed to exhaust the inexhaustible? I've disappointed you in some way? Or my pain tolerance isn't high enough? Or I'm too insecure and just add to your stress instead of relieving it? I'm sorry, Sir."
And a while later, his words arrive like his finger beneath my chin, forcing my head up from where it's dipped in shame to look into his sincere, beautiful eyes: "My sweet, good little girl. I'm VERY happy with you. You have been SO obedient and attentive, just as I asked, INCREDIBLY sensual and sexy, and are ALREADY showing that what I'm training you to do, you'll do gladly. You've already shown much more confidence in such a short time, sending pictures I ask for. And I know you'll grow even more into both the pornstar pet and the full service submissive I desperately desire you to become."
My eyes will be teary—this new thing they do, when before I refused to cry over anything that wasn't a dog passing away in a movie—and his words won't just stop there. No, he has to overwhelm my intrusive thoughts. He has to bat them away until they're not just hiding in the shadows until he turns his back, but beat them so severely they never return during that particular subject ever again.
"You're such a good girl. Tell your voices to shut their cake hole because I DO want you, and YOU CAN NEVER, EVER MESSAGE ME TOO MUCH OR SEND TOO MANY PICTURES."
And it continued, but in his deep voice that makes me weak:
"When I open my messages and see you've sent so many, it makes me SO happy. It means you thought about me each and every time and had to let me know I was on your mind."
"I love when you see something that makes you think of me, and then you message to tell me about it. Most people will see something that reminds them of someone and just go about their day. YOU see it, then you rush to your phone to tell me about it so I can enjoy it too. Because obviously if it made you think of me, then it's probably something I'll like, baby."
And then it's like he'll sense a teensy bit more of my doubt holding on, so he delivers the final blow, making me laugh and feel owned and adored all at once:
"I open up my messages and go 'Aw, she's psycho, but she's my little psycho."
And that's all it takes.
See? Nice.
He gets me better than I get myself.
He acknowledges what I'm saying, what I'm trying to convey, and then he responds to it in a way that doesn't make me feel stupid or silly. He doesn't half-ass reply. He doesn't ignore my concerns. He doesn't automatically tell me my idea is dumb or that my answer is incorrect. He doesn't make it his life's mission to prove me wrong, like it feels everyone else in my life does.
And when he is critical, he does it in a way that doesn't embarrass me, doesn't humiliate or make me feel shamed. He corrects me without man-splaining. He's said over and over he loves my intelligence, and he proves he's not just saying that by the way he talks to me. He knows if he says something I don't quite understand, I won't be able to control the urge to ask him what it meant. THEN he delves deeper into explaining, and God, I could listen to him talk forever.