I got a shock this morning, when my reflection peered curiously at me from within the confines of the mirror.
My eyes,
lids swollen,
tears written in mascara tracks on my cheeks.
There weren’t even that many of them.
I didn’t expect to look so


He takes a picture from the wall, one I hung for Him to see. I remember placing it there, hands trembling, breath held, listening to haunting echoes of what have I done?

“Shall we talk about your…”
<heavy pause>
He says,
and from the shadows, shades rush to crowd defensively around the frame, the eerie rustle of their capes causes me to hang my head.

Darkness bleeds, coating my desires and I in shame, and all I can do is hope he sees the engraving on the plaque beneath..
‘please, PLEASE understand, I don’t want to be on top.’

“The way I see it..” He says,
and the shades dart haphazardly back and forth, growing restless in response to His voice.

He carefully examines the image in front of Him, turning it this way and that, and I’m left wondering,
how he’ll finish that sentence.
I marvel, too, at how easily He carries it, it seems weightless in His hands.
Yet I remember my arms straining, muscles shaking, as I lifted it up to place in His view.

He continues,
“…it’s your primal side coming to the fore”
“..and I do like to see that side of you”

Wood splinters, frame cracks,
yet the cacophony feels oddly distant despite the sound reverberating right next to my ear.

I look, then, at the picture he holds aloft, and notice that through the shades, a diffuse light has appeared.

Words flow between us, sometimes staccato, at others, mellifluous.
“I don’t want you to feel ashamed…”
and more light breaks through.
No fractal beam of blinding harshness, just a soft glow from which emanates warmth.

With sound and syllable, and approximate touch,
with the reiterance of dominance,
and in submission defined,
He deftly removes the photo from it’s cage.

Palpable relief, a breath let out, against Him I press my body.

He re-frames the image and presents it to me, along with the knowledge that I don’t have to self negate.
I look at the image He remade for me.
I see a woman on her knees, a man standing tall, and proud.
I see those impish familiars, the shades of my past,
no longer to be feared.
She makes herself vulnerable, and with humility asks.

Her primal eyes flash as she looks up at Him.
“please, Sir, may I?” a low growl rumbling in her throat.
Adrenalin rushes, body, with desire, shakes.
He makes her wait for His response, tension sparks in the air.
She smiles, and quietly purrs, needs already fulfilled.

He may not always grant my wish, He may choose to sadistically deny.
But never with punishment for voicing a need, never with shame will He push me down.
In order to ask those questions, at his feet is where I must be.

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