Earlier this week, and at my specific request, Elita took me apart.
In 18 months of seeing her, in fact in 20 years of seeing Mistresses, this was the hardest session of them all.
Near the end, I was hit by a wave of pure emotion, as powerful and unstoppable as a tidal wave racing through a shanty town. It was so strong I broke down, crying great wracking sobs into the unhearing cold stone of the dungeon wall. When it was all over I cried still more tears onto Elita’s shoulder as she held me close.
And I haven’t cried, not really cried, for maybe 50 years.
Afterwards I felt so beautifully calm and renewed; full of a contemplative wonder.
Days later I spoke to Elita about the experience, wanting to know how it felt to push me over the edge, how it felt to do so again and again. Talking to her, and reading other people’s experience in lovely comments on my blog post helped me understand what had happened; helped my get used to the idea that it was actually OK to cry
In fact it was awesome, a cathartic outpouring of emotion, a sobbing, shuddering release.
I think that when the inevitable happens, and my aging parents finally pass on, this experience might just help me deal with it. Perhaps it will save me from the damage that would be caused by bottling my emotions and letting them ferment, which is what I have done all my life.
Just hours afterwards I flew off on holiday, enjoying the way the friction between the airplane seat and my sensitive skin kept the experience alive.
The experience is still alive now.
More sin here: