Abstraction, conceptual masochism.
Arrogant of thought to presume to be able.
However, a refusal to be
Beaten….oh no, wait! submissive, remember? Please Sir, can I have some more?
Connection, impulsive, a feral need to touch and see, convey the swell of emotion which consumes as one plummets
Dropping, blind, falling into the abyss.
Silent, cold, uninhabitable.
Except, He insists, as always. “Look at me, slut!”
Fuck you invites a reprimand. Slap punctuates the demand.
Fearful? Not fucking likely, I’m not scared of you.
Gently does it, a crisis of confidence and questions of worthiness arise
Does anyone really ever understand why they are loved? But
Hiding isn’t an option when face to face, syllables invisibly etched into patterns on the skin.
Holding back, but to what end?
Inability to convey frustrates, enrages.
I know what I want to say but I don’t know how. It’s an introvert’s life for me.
Just when I think I have it all figured He proves, once again, there’s more to explore.
Juxtaposed, pleasure and pain, love letters written in welts on my flesh.
Keenly felt, the blade as it cuts, submission bleeds from my pores.
Irony. Laughter wry. Force isn’t the key to how we’ve got this far.
Learning, an epiphany, we have our own language. We work, together, and that’s all that counts.
Adjustment not necessary at this juncture
Masochist, yes, that’s what I am, but please, don’t move, I need you close.
a Martyr, Sir, I am not.
Neurons explode in carnal desire as He feeds the lust which threatens to consume. An offering, of body, primal, taken.
On my knees a leap of faith, relief overwhelms, power exchanged.
Passive I may not always be, but intrinsically me, a desire to please. Tranquility sought, and found, at His feet.
Questions asked by fingers deft. Under the guise of dominance He plays His game of toy with the Flutterby as focus is sharp and serenity descends.
Demons lurk, twisted, malevolent.
Shadows are never far away.
Tentative, terrified, turn tail and run, fight or flight, sanity hangs by a gossamer thread as it
Unravels, out of control, memories pull the trigger of the cerebral gun. Fuck it, I’ll pull the trigger myself as knots are unpicked and thread straightened out. Defiant, I can always just start anew.
Oh the irony, yet again.
Virginal, huh? What the fuck is that again? Hold on, I remember, His touch reminds me every damn time. The predator, I sense danger, His aura both intimidates and thrills.
He’s a bastard at times, this man of mine. He makes me
Wait as He chooses His tools with which to treat my masochistic soul. Heat permeates, radiates, cheeks flushed, cheeks flushed.
X marks the spot, apparently, maybe even expected. But I choose to buck the trend, a creature of contradiction. Choice is mine to do as I please.
My needs, base, are simple, really. Bend me to your will, take me, heart, body and soul.
I beg you, make me
Yield. In deference, Sir, I kneel.
A sigh, relief, achievement, He’s proud.
the Zenith I’ve reached. A mountain considered insurmountable, but the view from the top, above the clouds and clutter of mind, humbles, challenge complete.