James Bay ~ Hold Back The River
Hold back the river, let me look in your eyes
Hold back the river so I
Can stop for a minute and see where you hide
Hold back the river, hold back

Within the scope of our dynamic, limits are our anchor.
We’re pushed to our limits, we operate within the bounds they set, even when extending them, our limits remain, strong and resolute, in our peripheral vision.

Without them, our relationship would have the potential to become,
to be reduced to,
an endless pursuit of the next uncompromising high, eventually exhausting that finite resource, leaving us stranded in the midst of a sentient wasteland barely able to recognise the person at our side, our shadows the only clue as to who we once were.

Within the realm of boundaries and expectations, He sets for me limits to which I must adhere. I’m held accountable, by myself and Him, if beyond those bounds I stray.
They, He, provides for me many things.
To them I am willingly tethered,
Their purpose I respect,
Of them I am intrigued,
Beyond them I see a challenge,
Too far over them, however, I accept that my relationship I may forfeit, so whilst I may occasionally peer with binocular vision into the distance, I always return, humbled, to His side, content from Him to never stray too far.

Within the context of play, we sometimes seek to extend our limits, render them flexible, by discussion, by experimentation, by trusting the other with our vulnerabilities, knowing we are safe.
Some limits will always remain, immovable, coercion never used to manipulate that fact.
But some, some we become fascinated by, examining them from a multitude of different angles, noting the line in the sand at our feet.
We stare at them, curiosity piqued, and wonder what if….

What if we drew a new line in the sand, extending it, to discover on what journey the process takes us?

My world starts to become fuzzy, my hands oddly cold, each adrenalin infused heartbeat bangs noisily in my chest.
His hand at my throat, squeezing, controlling,
each breath,
holding me still,
commanding my hands remain passive by my side.
“I can’t fucking breath” I mouth to Him,
raspy words inaudible,
and the fucker, He just sardonically smiles.

He squeezes even harder, and I begin to drift,
“I decide when you can breathe and when you can’t, understand?”

As I nod my submission, my eyes begin to glaze, and on the precipice of panic, He sets me free, and delights as I gasp and splutter, ego appropriately subdued, beneath Him.

So we approach the line, and place our toe across it.
We wait, breath held, nervous energy barely contained, and determine if it’s safe to continue.
A foot over now, is it exhilaration or panic we feel?
We pick up the sand, noting how each grain feels as gravity pulls it through our fingers, and forms either a pathway forwards, or a new line to be approached another day when confidence reignites our curiosity.

Both He and I have challenged our limits, but never is pressure applied from either side to do so.I used to worry that my fantasies, my most intimate shadowy desires, were simply too dark for Him, and I kept them closetted, imposing an arbitrary limit upon Him in the process. I have since learnt to share them and not fear judgement, trusting Him to decide, for both our sakes, which side of the sandy line they will reside upon.