Like Old Times

"Do you ever find yourself missing people you know you shouldn't?"

The question catches me off guard. I hadn't expected a deep conversation. Not that it's not welcome. Just... unexpected. I push the pause button on the controller as I contemplate the question.

I'm not sure how to answer and so the words take a while to find. The stretched silence between us isn't awkward though to outsiders it might seem that way. I slouch a bit deeper into the corner of the L-shaped couch as I ponder, chewing on the inside of my cheek absently.

"I don't like thinking that I should regret the people I've been with. Even the people who I know were negative relationships. They helped make me who I am. And I went into the relationship because I thought they were good people. There were positives mixed into everything. It's not black and white. It's a lot of gray. I don't like thinking that I shouldn't miss them." I'm not sure if my overly deep, soul-bearing answer is the answer you were looking for, but it's how I truly feel.

"Zane is a good example. Even with everything he did while mom was in the hospital I still care about him. I mean. I would totally let him burn just a bit longer than I should if he were on fire, but eventually I would break down and spit on him."

"Freya!"

I smile, not only because I love hearing the pet name you gave to me so long ago coming from your lips, but for the tone of exasperation that I am able to pull from you as well. My smile falters a bit at an unexpected twinge of pain, though. This answer, too, is truthful and pulls fresh memories to the surface like razor blades against my shoulders.

Here I am, sitting in my "slut" shorts and a black wife-beater shirt, playing Witcher III, the new matriarch of my family tree. Today was a "hard" day. Yesterday was a "hard" day, too. I haven't had a lot of them since mom's death, but they're there, and I never know when I'll have one. The sadness just sort of creeps in and it makes me not really give a fuck about anything, current state of dress included.

Well, that's not entirely true. I care about the things that cause me to hurt me more than I already am, like thoughts of Zane.

Could someone be any more of a douche? I mean, seriously? You're going to call me while I'm spending every night in the hospital with my mom, holding her hand and simply being grateful for the fact that she's breathing and tell me that you feel like I'm abandoning you? Pardon me while I give zero fucks about hand-holding you through your insecurity issues.

And as if that wasn't shitty enough, there's the afterward... after mom's death, after the cremation and flying her ashes back home with me, her urn packed into my backpack and scanned by security as I stand in line trying not to break down into tears as my bag is handed back to me with a solemn, "I'm sorry for your loss." After all of the bullshit of the memorial service for everyone else and having to hug and shake hands with people I've never met. Mom's coworkers most of them, but also what seemed like a never-ending stream of people from my uncle's church. After finally being able to come back to what should have been my home, only to find out another girl had been over. Not once. But three times. In "our" room. In "our" bed.

Even after all of that I still care and find myself missing the times of cuddling on the couch while watching Ergo Proxy or BoJack Horsemen.

I sigh and run my fingers through my hair, ideally noticing that I need to dye my bangs again because noticing trivial things like that keeps the pain at bay. The purple is fading, and I know the roots are back to being blond again, my typically dark hair bleached so the color shows better. Lame. I guess this is what apathy gets me. The self-deprecating thought of seeing my picture next to the term "white trash" in the dictionary floats at the edges of my thoughts before I pull away from it.

I have enough going on in my life without you adding to the emotional bullshit, Brain.

Tears, those annoying, uncontrollable things which never seem to go away and always show up at the most inopportune times, burn my eyes as I fight against the emotions. Anger. Pain. Loneliness. Always this feeling of loneliness.

I sigh again in exasperation. At myself. At the situation. Fucking emotions and grieving. All I want is to not be an emotional basket case. Apparently that's too much to ask for at the moment, though.

I sigh again, my hand dropping from playing with my hair to rest on the back of the couch. I stare at the ring on my right hand, the gold band circling my ring finger. I doubt I'll every take it off unless I'm forced to. It's the Mother's ring I had gotten for mom all those years ago for Christmas. The ring my younger brother placed in my palm when I had gotten to the hospital that day...

I look away from the ring. Why does everything have to have so many confusing emotions attached to it? Even this, being here, sitting in the living room alone with you is confusing and I don't know what to do with the emotions. Ignore them? Stuff them back down into the abyss for a later time? Or... Or maybe...

"I miss you a lot," I eek out, the words slightly rushed for fear of not saying them at all. I know I probably shouldn't say things like that. We broke up. Almost two years ago now. You're in a monogamous relationship. The only reason I'm even crashing with you is because you're an amazing person and kind, which I totally feel like I don't deserve. So I really shouldn't say things that could fuck stuff up.

I would be sleeping in my car or crashing on someone's couch if it weren't for you. I couldn't stay with Zane. I couldn't be in the apartment after finding out about Sara. But instead, you were beyond gracious and offered me your spare room while I finish up projects at work. You gave me a place to stay for the last two months of this chapter in my life when I thought I would be homeless.

I know I shouldn't poke at things like our past relationship, I shouldn't be dragging us, you, through this emotional garbage with me, but I can't keep these words, these feelings, inside anymore. I don't want to fight against them. I'm so tired of having to fight everything. The past month has been rough, and not just because of this "grieving" thing I'm having to figure out.

I see you with her. With Em. I see you guys fighting and it breaks my heart because I feel like you should be treated better. I see you smile and laugh with her and it hurts like a lance through my chest because I remember when it was me making you laugh. It reminds me of the companionship I no longer have and it makes me feel cold and alone. More so than just because mom isn't here for me to call and complain to.

I miss the nights we would read to each other. I miss falling asleep next to another person and feeling their warmth. And on the days I'm not a crazy pile of emo depression I miss the thrill of having someone touch me, excite me. I miss kissing, and gasping, and moaning into the crook of someone's neck as we lose ourselves in each other.

It's been so long since I've had any sort of D/s interaction I almost wonder if I'm still submissive. Sure I have fantasies, sometimes. But am I still the masochist I was when we were together?

I don't know. And that in itself is sort of sad.

So much sad. And there they are. The tears. Silently running down my face as I look at the paused screen trying to pretend that I'm ok even though I know I'm not. It's a "hard" day. I'm allowed to have them. That's what everyone keeps telling me anyway. I'm allowed to cry.

I bite my lip, looking away. Looking out of the window which shows the darkness of night. It offers me no comfort or answers. No road map for how I'm supposed to be navigating my life right now.

The window's silence sparks anger in me. I can feel the snap within myself and right now, in this moment, I don't care. Fuck it.

Fuck resistance. Fuck denial. And fuck this loneliness.

I sit up, extracting myself from the corner of the couch that had been my nest for the past hour. I move the TV tray closer to the table so there is more space for me to move, carefully ensuring that my neglected water bottle doesn't tip over due to inertia.

"I'm moving things," I declare as you watch me questioningly, the determination in my voice making my words non-negotiable.

I sit back down on the couch, angling myself so that my feet are curled up on one end while my forehead rests against your kneecaps. I need this, and I don't care if it's right or wrong. For five minutes out of my fucking crap-tastic day I need to feel close to someone. Someone who cares. Someone who knows all of the bullshit I have had to fight through for the past month since I've been back. For the past two months since mom died.

Please. I'm sorry. I'm sorry if this is wrong. I'm sorry if this messes things up. I just need to feel like I'm not alone.

"Aww, little one."

I feel your hand petting my hair as the tears continue to run down my face. I focus on my breathing, trying to hide the fact that I'm crying, but your touch is so comforting. So real. It's just like it was before. It's familiar. It's safe.

We stay like that for I don't know how long. Minutes. Hours. Eternity would be too short a time. The tightness in my chest eases gradually, the pain slips away as I give into the sensation of being pet. I let go of something within myself as the repetition of the strokes allows me sink into a calmness, a peace, that I haven't felt in so long. My breathing becomes easier, and soon there is nothing but your warmth, your scent, your palm as it runs over my hair, soothing away all of the bad.

I scoot up a bit, inching my body along yours, making it easier for you to pet me. I breathe in deep and sigh contentedly as the rhythm continues, lulling me deeper into peace. My eyes shut as I let myself drift, float. So calm. So quiet.

The ticking of the wall clock. The sound of music from your room. Our breathing. So calm. So quiet.

My eyes snap open, my muscles tense as I feel your nails gently graze over my scalp. It's like electricity against my skin and I feel myself involuntarily tightening in response. I can't stop the short, shallow gasp as the new and unexpected sensations flood my body, igniting my nervous system.

Your hand returns to petting, stroking, soothing. It's as if nothing happened, but I know it did. I know what I felt and how I still feel, alive, on fire, and I'm so sorry for these feelings. I bit my lower lip in worry. I hadn't meant to react that way. I'm sorry. I know it's wrong. I know I shouldn't feel things like this for you. Longing. Desire. I didn't mean to.

The thoughts are almost frantic in my mind. I don't want to mess you and Em up. I don't want to be a home wrecker. I don't want to disrespect your kindness, but I don't want you to stop and I can't will myself to sit up and move away from you. Please. I need this. So much. Please. I'm sorry, just please don't stop. Not yet.

Since I can't be the bigger person I squeeze my eyes shut instead, my hands gripping into the couch, body tense as I wait for your disappointment. As I wait for the petting to end and to be left alone once again.

There is no disappointment, though. No anger. No rejection. You continue to pet me, stroke after measured, unhurried stroke, and slowly the worry melts away. The tension leaves. Maybe you didn't hear my gasp. Or maybe you realized I wouldn't be able to be touched like that without it being sexual so you went back to a "safe" touch. Or maybe it was an accident and you hadn't meant to do it at all.

I don't know, but you're still here, and you're still touching me. So it must be ok, right?

I press my forehead closer against you, willing the thoughts to go away. Willing them to leave me alone and for the peace to return. I all I want is for this to be ok.

Another thrill shoots down my spine as your nails run through my hair again. Another gasp. I squeeze my eyes tighter this time. It wasn't an accident before. And if it wasn't an accident I'm sure you heard my reaction, which means you want this. You want my reaction. Oh, please then. Please do it again. Just once more. Do it just once more. Please.

Oh, and you do. Long. Slow. Deliciously deliberate.

I exhale the breath I had been holding. Yes. Just like that. Oh. If only it could last for forever. If only things were different.

It's not just once more, though. No. It's not a single stroke. You continue to run your fingers through my hair. Over. And over. Each time I give in a little more to the feeling, the sensation. Each time I'm sure it will be the last time. Each time your nails run just a little firmer against my scalp.

It's so good to be touched. It's so tantalizingly wrong. If only it wouldn't stop.

"Oh," the soft moan spills from my lips as my back arches the barest amount, pressing my chest slightly against your shins as your fingers tighten faintly in my hair.

Fuck. Fuck, fuck, fuck. God how I want you to pull it like you used to. Please pull it. Pull my hair.

You release the soft grip you had, though, and instead return to stroking my hair. I press my forehead to your knees again, whimpering, needing I don't know what. Just please don't stop.

You don't. God, you keep petting me, and soon your nails return and I writhe in bliss at the feeling. Yes. Yes.

"Ahh." Another burst of ecstasy as there's a tug. Harder this time. Stronger.

Mmm. More. Please more.

My body begs for it. And you give it, grace me with it. Another slight release before a firmer tug, this one causing my head to pull away from your knees, bending my neck slightly.

My thighs press together as my hips grind against the emptiness I feel inside myself. God. I remember how you used to make me cum just from touching my back. I don't now what it is about you, but you were always able to make me respond. Just like now. All you've done is play with my hair but I can feel how wet and ready I am for you.

"You're a good girl aren't you?" I can barely hear your whispered words above me, but they set me on fire. I always wanted to be your good girl. I always wanted to please you.

"You would do whatever I told you, wouldn't you?" Another tug, another low, barely stifled moan, as you use my hair to turn me so I am on my back. My left leg slides off the couch, balancing me as my chest rises and falls with my ragged breathing. In my haze of pleasure and need I can think enough to know that my breasts must be a sight at the moment. My hands by my head, back arching, the black fabric stretched taut over my hard nipples.

I feel the tip of your finger touch my chest where my pendant normally rests. Just the barest of touches and yet I'm so close to cumming for you that I am reduced to whimpering.

Another tug, followed by a small stroke, starting a bit higher this time, closer to my cleavage. More helpless whimpering as my hips begin to gyrate. God. Please touch me. Just a little bit further. Please.

Tug. Stroke. Oh, you're such a tease. Please. Please I know you want to.

Tuuug. Stroooke. Fuck. Fuck. Please. I want you so much. Please. I remember how you would fuck me. Tugging my hair just like this. I remember how you would whisper in my ear how my job was to take dick. To make them cum. Please. Please, I want to make you cum.

Tuuuuug. Stroooooke. Please. Oh please. Higher. Just a little higher. You're almost touching my breast. Please. Grip it. Squeeze it. Oh, please.

Tug. Stroke. Stroke. Stroke. Stroke. Tuuuuug.

My body convulses. I am reduced to a quivering mess as your hand pulls my head back one last time, pulling me down into the cushion of the couch while the stroke of your finger forces my chest upwards like an offering. All the while my hips thrash on their own accord as you force me over the edge into a deep, toe-curling orgasm.

"Such a good girl." Your voice, your energy, your power courses through my body and I am helpless to do anything but experience the sensations. In this moment I'm yours. Your creature. Your Freya.

The moment lasts. I gasp and whimper. I let go of everything. There is no consciousness. There is no self. I let all of it be seared away by the relentless waves of pleasure.

Slowly, eventually, I return to the here and now, still gasping but aware. Aware of your words and your touch. Your gentle stroking of my hair, my face, returning me back to my body.

"God. I need to walk away before this goes further. Going to have to wait a bit to stand, though."

I smile at your words. I can feel that it's a "silly" smile. The one I normally have when I'm playful and mischievous. I curl onto my side as I bask and contemplate leaving things as they are. After a few seconds of deliberation, as hard as that is to do at the moment, I decide to give into the lighthearted mirth I'm feeling.

"So... crawling into your lap would be a bad idea?" I tease. I know we can't go further. I know this is too far as it is, but I don't care at the moment. I know if I actually did anything to actively touch you that you would be just as affected as I was by you, and knowing that does wonders for my ego.

"That would be a VERY bad idea." I love the way you can laugh and speak at the same time. How your words can have such warmth and life.

I smile wider as I scoot just a bit on the couch, teasingly inching towards you.

"And I'm getting up." You gently but quickly remove yourself from the couch before, quite literally, dashing into your room, which isn't all that far away in the small apartment.

I laugh as I stay on the couch, savoring the moment. This is what I've needed. Not sex, but connection. True connection.

The door to the apartment jingles mixed with the tinkering of keys hitting metal. I sit up, stretching slightly and resume possession of the controller along with my perch in the corner of the couch, trying to remember what I was doing in the game before you had come out of the room. Was it really only ten minutes ago?

Em walks through the door and even though I feel insanely better than I did before, I don't feel like talking, so aside from the customary exchanging of greetings nothing further is said between us. She walks past me and into the room you had just so recently retreated to. I wonder if she'll finish what we started. Is she going to be the one to suck your cock? I bite my lip as my body tightens at the thought.

I know society would look at this say I should feel guilty, but I don't. Maybe that's the apathy in me or a side effect of my grieving. Maybe it's me justifying my actions in my own head. All I wanted was to not feel alone, and I don't anymore. I'm still able to connect with people and feel things other than sadness and pain. I can still feel warmth, and desire, and I can still be the submissive little fuck toy that you trained me to be.

I don't know why, but I like that. It makes me feel more real, and more like myself than I have in a while. Maybe there's hope for me yet.