It's those moments I tend to remember the most. They carve little lines into my brain, snippets of memories, images, smells, the way it all felt to be in that moment. And even if it's years later, when I can't remember anymore what exactly Husband did to me that night or how the rest of the scene played out, I can still recapture that moment.
I have a library of them now, stored in my head. Different times, different scenes, all with one thing in common: they took me to that place of consummate awareness.
A time he thrust into my ass without warmup. I was on all fours on the floor, and he came up behind me and lunged so hard, my whole body pushed forward. I cried out, and he pressed his fingers into my hips to steady me. I remember the feeling of his fingers digging into my flesh, his body pressing against mine, and of course, my asshole burning around his cock. I remember the smell of the carpet, the shadow of light on the walls, the way his breath sounded mingled with my cry.
The time he trussed me up on the bed and then left me there, alone. The look he gave me before he left the room; the sound of the door clicking closed. I remember the clinks of the glass as I listened to him pouring himself a drink, the creak of the couch as he sat down, the low murmurs of the TV. Every echo and nuance of sound, intensified by my despair.
The time I walked into the bedroom and found all our toys laid out on the bed. He stood behind it, arms crossed in front of his chest, naked.
I remember the smug, domineering look in his eyes as he said "the bed is for the toys tonight. You'll be on the floor." And just like that, I was reveling in submission.
The time he had me pinned on my back, and pulled my arms all the way out to my sides to expose my breasts. Until that moment, what we had been engaging in had been playful fun; now it took on a whole different tone. I remember the look in his eyes, the calm determined expression on his face as he pulled my arms away. I fought, and I clawed, and finally I began to cry and beg, but he kept pulling...that moment when he lowered his head down to my breast, and all I could do was scream in terror, was one I will never forget.
He bit my nipple, I remember that. It hurt. But the pain, and any marks that were left afterwards, have long since faded from memory. That moment of sheer panic remains, locked in time.
Pain and pleasure fade. Marks and bruises can last a while, by they, too, eventually fade. Memories can last forever. They are the true treasures of time, and I am lucky to have as many as I do.