Captured, sporadically, in sleep’s capricious embrace, my mind does a dance and I dangle on the end of it’s marionette strings.
It takes me a few long moments to gauge where I am, blinded by the spotlight under whose beam my erratic movements are played out on the stage of my humiliation.
Confusion and curiosity fight to take precedence at the forefront of
as I wait.
Fluidity of movement replaces the erratic,
and the strings,
once taut and insistent,
allow me lower,
to lie me down as I curl up in
on the bare floor
at His feet.
I know what’s coming, and in that moment my mind splits in two.
The surface beckons but I remain
two amounts of confusion with which, eventually, my fully conscious mind will wrestle.
The piece of mind nearest the surface, outstretched fingertips achingly close to brushing consciousness,
on a looped reel of
The dream-soaked mind which collided with the fantastic is already 3 moves ahead, already feeling,
so when it begins,
no surprise lies in wait.
As reality is suspended, and my cheeks feel the splash of warm liquid soak my skin, the walls of my mind fold inward, and I begin to shake.
Where liquid places it’s memory, and spatters cool, skin trembles with humility.
Where liquid fresh falls, and from the onslaught my dignity hides, skin burns in it’s embarrassed state.
Yet there is no distress.
Barely there consciousness imagined distress.
The liquid wets my hair, sticking errant strands to my face, rivulets of His offering falling from skin to floor, to pool around my humbled form.
I remember, as the trance faded,
wishing it to stop,
wishing it to continue,
I remember I couldn’t look up as the last drop fell, abject humiliation causing me to travel further inward.
I remember the calm, my mind stopped moving, white noise as His voice reached my ears.
The combination of needs unsettling.
The marionette’s strings pull once more, and I find myself
yet still my eyes remain downcast.
I’m acutely aware of the state of me, of what causes the cloth to cling coldly to my skin.
I don’t want Him to touch me yet I need His warmth to counter my shivers.
I don’t want Him to speak lest His words compound my horror, yet I need His melody to bring me back.
I’m mortified, and even as consciousness calls to me, I feel the colour of shame sting my cheeks.
The illusionary mind relinquishes it’s grip, and as reality bites, I’m ashamed of the way I so easily yielded, confused by how free I felt as my body, my whole self, was defiled.
I find myself asking the question, if this is where my mind takes me when it’s unencumbered, if this is where it seeks it’s comfort when all around is painted in tumult, has my submission shifted so dramatically that degradation is where atleast part of me now needs to be?