Out of the Shadows. Senta Holland

I was delighted that he could take me the way he wanted it and I was feverish with hoping that he would, the whole way.

      Because underneath my delight and my animal lust and my special submissive arousal at being taken while my vagina burned, and slapped in the face and made to move the way he told me, I was dancing a delicate dance, trying to encourage his penis to stay hard and stay in, squeezing my vagina muscles enough but not too much, finding the right angle to push, not to be persuaded away by the slow current of the tide, coaxing this hard, big, exquisite, unexpected huge penis to stay in the dance and feel me and push me and pierce me and not fall back, shrink, slip out, but stay and grow and be as wild as its master. And my master.

      I felt how my Nai worked, his legs trembled where he stood, his whole slim body generating desperate energy, wanting to let go, just like me, wanting to dissolve into the sea, but not too soon, wanting to feel his erection and enjoy it and be proud, and feel me around it and hammer me and fuck me and blast me and master me and subject me in penetration as he was subjecting my mind and body in so many other ways.

      He wanted to, so much, and yet he was wary of just giving himself to it, let it flow, in case it stopped again, in case his body let him down as he had felt it had let him down before.

      I remembered how quickly he had pulled out and given up, that night in Ayuthaya, not given himself a chance to start up again, and I was glad I hadn’t tried to, either, just lain there with him, resting my head on his chest, caressing and licking his body, not his penis, softly, tenderly, talking.

      Only now, exploding with heat in the sun, fucking hard in the sea, yes, yes, because that’s what we were, fucking hard in the sea, I realised how much he had wanted this, and how fragile everything still was, in spite of the wild movements, in spite of his reassuring continued size, in spite of the dominant thrusting and ramming himself into me.

      I felt the wave of my own orgasm building up. Every movement of his penis made me contract, and the point behind my cervix where the tension collects before it opens out and swallows sea water until it drowns, happily, was gaping its hungry mouth.

      I wanted so much to come, my body wanted to come, but, more than all that, I wanted him to come, to grow as hard and full as he could, and then come to orgasm, inside me.

      I wasn’t sure.

      I felt his heart beat, fast, so fast, I felt his breath, I looked into his eyes, I gave him my lust and my submission. I felt his penis but I didn’t know for sure, I couldn’t tell, and I tried to hold my own orgasm back, so that I wouldn’t squeeze too hard, didn’t disturb his rhythm, didn’t spoil it for him, he was so close, so close this time, to coming inside a woman, after seven years.

      Finally, he threw his head back and held me so tight I sputtered for air.

      Then he relaxed.

      I had to look at him, I didn’t know. I saw it in his face, yes, he had come.

      The peak for my own orgasm was past, but seeing him so happy made me dance with joy and I coaxed some of the contractions back, and he held me, tenderly, joyfully, trying to make sure I got my fill, and I came, a few times, as his penis sunk back, out of joy and release, and knowing that in the future, if there was a future, I would come and come and come, with that huge penis, and being fucked and opened up like that, my vagina still wasn’t closing herself again, as if in shock, or, maybe, gaping for more, until I, too, dropped back into the sea, and we both floated, hair and arms and legs drifting over the coral reefs, a pair of still hot satiated choice morsels for any passing shark, for the sun to shine onto, for the angry little fish to snip at, and for the locals to point to and photograph.

      Until that moment I think I never fully realised how vital being able to fuck a woman with his penis and come inside her is for a man. I had had some limited experience of impotent men before but they always played it down, so I did too. I had heard advice on the radio and I had seen training videos for counsellors which all seemed to say that it wasn’t such a big deal.

      I never really understood men until this moment in the sea with my Nai.

      Until that moment with my Nai I didn’t know, not really, not intimately, not from my lover while he fucked, how much a man’s whole being is affected by the performance of his penis.

      Only now the circle had closed for him, and only now was he really free to give himself to our play.

      Because of this moment the relationship took on a whole different dynamic. He was wilder in his play, and I had found a very deep, intimate place in his affections. Because I was the woman who had been with him in this moment. Who had been with him through this moment. I was the manifestation of his rebirth as a sexual being.

      While for me, he simply transformed my entire life.

      So that was fair.

      I could have reflected on all this that same evening, in our bed, when he was taking me into the deepest and most intimate humiliation I had ever known and always desired.

      But by then I was again flying without a pilot, and so much immersed in the present that I didn’t even notice it.

       The match

      So what is it that I want so much?

      So much that I travelled round the whole world and spent so many years looking?

      I want to fulfil my deepest needs. And I want to find someone who has and knows his own deepest needs.

      I want someone who matches my desires, so that I fulfil his and he fulfils mine, just and exactly by being who we are.

      It sounds impossibly ambitious, and it is very simple.

      On the most primal, biological level, it is not at all too much to ask.

      On the contrary, it is the most common relationship dynamic in the world.

      Animals have it, plants have it.

      They have it with other animals, other plants who are genetically developed to match them. They also have it far beyond that – with the environment they live in, with the temperature, the moisture in the air, the chemical composition of the soil and the water. With their choice of planet. I don’t know if they feel fulfilled, but they are. They each have what they need and they give to their partners what those partners need.

      On some level I claim the same rights as a duckweed or a one-cell amoeba swimming in a slimy pond. I want to be matched. And I can provide the right match.

      But of course it’s not always so easy.

      Particularly for humans whose needs appear to be so much more complex, although I don’t actually think mine are.

      Still, the matching process doesn’t always work.

      A dog in a city apartment, a flower on a windowsill, or a worm eating earth of the wrong kind of acidity will not find it.

      I don’t know how much they suffer. I don’t know if they even know the cause of pain.

      BDSM as I practise it is a very sophisticated concept, evolved and refined over thousands of years of human culture. It involves biological, mental and psychological aspects. As do romantic love, team sports and international politics.

      But BDSM is also a primal need. For us, the BDSM people. It’s not something that we choose, it chooses us. It is who I am, just like the grass, just like the cricket that sings in it.

      People say it is naïve to look for a perfect match in those complex mental and psychological constructions we carry in our evolved little heads, but I don’t think I am. I am quite happy to accept a rough match that leaves many areas of my life open to other relationships. But I do need someone who matches the core.

      People shake their wise human heads and predict self-inflicted failure.

      But I don’t accept that.

      After all I only want what every plant and dog has.

      If they are allowed to go out and find it.

      If