The Love Buffet

I tell you this so you will understand my history.
 
I was the woman who didn’t feel. I was the woman who didn’t cry, from spankings or otherwise. I watched other couples, holding hands and gazing into each others’ eyes, like I was conducting a sociological study: this is man, in love.
 

 
For most of my life, I considered myself incapable of loving and allowing love in. I was adept at simulating the appropriate emotions without involving my heart.
 
Even in marriage I feigned love, knowing that something was missing, something key that prevented me from being whole. I was the Great Pretender. I played the part of wife as best I could and finally, exhausted from the effort, stepped off the stage.
 

 
Later, and with irony, a broken heart taught me that I am whole. In submission, I could love. I could hurt and cry and go through heartbroken depression like a normal person. Apart from my profound sadness, there was nothing wrong with me. Since then, since my acceptance of submission, I can’t stop feeling. It’s been one big, emotional party for a year: a love buffet.
 
D and I weren’t supposed to be together this long. With decades and distance between us, we had no expectations of anything beyond a spanking relationship. He wished I was older; I wished he was younger. We both wished we were closer. Now we just wish for more time together.
 

 
I feel the occasional pull of my sedated history. I find myself going blank, fearing the emotions that swarm around and through me, wanting to disappear again into my unfeeling fog. But I let him love me; I let myself love him.
 
Together, we found our rhythm in spanking and poetry.