#erotic prose
The blades of the fan make a whomp whomp whompeach time they complete a rotation. It’s violence, that sound, razor sharp indifference spinning by, happy in oblivion. It makes me shiver, ever so slightly, to think about how happy it is to keep on spinning. About how imminent the bloody mess could be.
About how, any moment now, I’m going to actually throw my hand between those blades, try and seize an opportunity and come out unscathed.
It’s a curious thing. There’s definitely something of exposure to it, leaving myself a vulnerable while the other person processes the information, makes a judgement, and decides whether they’re going to eviscerate me or let it stand. I feel like I’m pulling a pin on a grenade and I’m just finding out whether the other person is as much of an explosives enthusiast as I am.
A year ago, I think things would be different. Twelve months can be a long time to the twenty-something bracket, and this particular twelve seems to have been something of a sea change, something bubbling to the surface of the collective subconscious and floating happily there, bobbing with the waves. It would seem, in parts, that this whole thing has slipped from deterrent to curiosity.
I’d say it’s proving my own personal theories, of the prevalence of the D/s dynamic in vanilla relationships, where you could take any one of them, snapshot it, and be able to assign one side or the other to either person involved. I’d say that people are just realising that control is another word for fun, that experimenting is a thrill, but I think it’s more to do with a popularising of the notion than anything else.
More to the point, it’s forcing me to verbalise my interest in a way that isn’t steeped in technical terms, soaked in awareness and marinaded in a general understanding of the lifestyle. Layman’s terms to put it lightly, more often I’m finding myself grasping for analogy and abstracts, casting shadows against a wall and declaring ‘Don’t you see? Can’t you see? It’s right there, in between the light and dark.’ They smile. Sometimes I think it’s genuine.
There’s a joy in that, too, in the sharing of it. Broadening someone’s horizons, introducing them to something new, and maybe taking the first few steps along the road together, seeing all of these things that have been normalised to me, rendered the everyday, for the novelty of them, vicarious experience through the eyes of a newcomer, all fascination, fear and excitement. To see her face the first time I tie her down. To shape it like a sculpture, with a little of my own image thrown in.
I might revel in the teaching, but I’ve got my own little narcissist pruning in the corner.
Let go of that fist you’ve been balling your whole life.
Release the breath that you’ve been holding since forever.
Empty the mind that’s been cluttered, overwhelmed, filled with a raucous cacophony of anxiety, insecurity, neurosis and the kind of low level fear that never goes away, never makes itself known, but is there nonetheless, that kind that makes you fray, exhausts and wears away at you.
That’s what you want. Even if you can’t quite articulate it, I know that at the heart of all this, you’re after relief. Not necessarily relief from yourself, but relief from all the parts that you’ve had to construct, the pieces of yourself that are reactions to the world around you, build up so deep and so thick that you’re not sure where they end and you begin.
So let me take you to that point. Allow me to push you, condense you down, reduce you to your bare elements, and then see who you are. Cut to the quick, to the place where the flashes of you aren’t considered, or deliberate, or even accidental. Just an expression of yourself, something you weren’t even certain was still around, hadn’t been able to indulge in the length of time it takes to forget whether something really happened or was just some fancied dream, an idle thought that could’ve crossed over into reality.
I want to hew a vessel from your bones, to carry you to the point where the world falls away and you just drift. Glide through whatever you exists at that point, whatever person is left after you’ve been stripped down, laid bare, examined. Once I’ve poked and prodded and pushed and pushed until you have no choice but to collapse, until this whole sorry house of cards comes tumbling down, and you’re just left there in the wreckage, looking beautiful.
Show me your truth, whatever form that takes.
You create the vacuum, and I’ll fall into it. Fill it with myself, until there’s nothing but me, a whole universe of myself that permeates down to the core of you. Turn yourself into a canvas, and I’ll paint myself there.
But do it, please. Create in yourself an inverse, and I’ll render a whole. The concept of equality has a habit of reducing everyone to a homogeneous mass, each the same until something finally comes along to create some texture, or hack out some originality. We don’t start off the same, you and I, but we do start off with the same choices, the same opportunities.
So don’t be the same, merely be symmetrical. Where I go left, go right. Where I tie, you be tied. When I swell, you lull, create space for me to fill, and I’ll do the same for you. Control fails without a subject, I’d just be some madman in the dark, alone and rambling.
And let that inversion, the fearful symmetry, permeate yourself, sending out aftershocks and tendrils away from me, and into your life. There’s always a reason you’re seeking that surrender, some imbalance that you’re trying to revert, so be mindful of that. Allow the moments that exhaust you, drain away your will to lead and assert, to be bolstered by the times that you don’t have to.
I’ll do the same. I’ll use that confidence, the web of expectation that constantly buoys us back together, to push me forward when I would otherwise tend towards procrastination, or a lack of conviction. Symbiosis carries with it all sorts of distasteful connotations, so let’s try something else. Co-dependence.
We take from this different things, but as much as I am who I am without anyone to be it with, you should understand that it’s only when I am able to do those things, steer another person, that I ever feel like I’m properly driving myself. Call it what you will; a pursuit of a muse, a reason, or purpose, or merely that finally there is someone bearing witness, and in having an audience you want to excel.
Regardless, it, without fail, makes me a better man.
You make me nervous, she said, and it made my mind race.
There’s a sort of residual guilt in the concept that there’s the slightest hint of capture when talking to a girl, but it’s unavoidable when I deal with it from the psychological viewpoint that I do. I’m walking on a tightrope, constantly, and it’s getting thinner and thinner the further I walk, until that one moment, that fulcrum, and things suddenly get pleasantly wide.
I have so many things to say. So many things that would make you go running for the hills, that would terrify and appall, an inner monologue of filth and perversion that makes even me baulk sometimes. They’re not really realities that I want to manifest, or even ideas I want to entertain, but the problem is that some of them are, and the idea of giving away too much too soon puts a little of the fear in me.
What amuses me is that this isn’t even remotely unique to D/s. There are always secrets, lies of omission, things that you don’t want to reveal too early. The bad habits, the questionable tastes in music and film, the fuck ups that you haven’t quite managed to reconcile with yourself. But with kink there’s always the feeling that you might go from the man who is excitingly different, a little dangerous, into the predator she was always worried you were.
You make me nervous, she said, and I winced a little.
Because what if I have overstepped? What if that last thing was that step too far, the one to actually make her shake her head for a moment, realise that this illusion I’ve been slowly constructing around her is quite as delicate as it is, and she decides to tear the whole thing down? What if it’s not even that dramatic, just the seed of doubt that turns into the sudden, apologetic admission two months down the line that she really isn’t ready for all this, and that this was all a terrible mistake.
You make me nervous, she said, and then she smiled.
No, actually, nervous isn’t quite right. You make me excited.
But, like most of them, it’s got meaning.
I don’t think it’s accidental that it’s calmly become part of the vernacular of kink. There are many other words that would fit that context just as well, but I have to believe that at some point the other options faded away until there was just that singular, that theatrical nom de guerre, with all of the baggage that it brought over from the West End.
To me, it’s a reminder. that what I am doing, no matter how real and powerful it feels, is only as real and powerful as I allow, and as you allow in turn. that it’s a construct, primarily, something affected even if the contents, the stage directions, render one or the other of us powerless, restrained and wanting. A fantasy rendered real by the moans and smirks, each spank and pinch, props coming flowing out from under the bed like every monster you ever imagined.
More than that, there’s also an intent behind it. An actor needs words, a play needs meaning, and a scene needs thought and care behind it, an aim and purpose to drive it through to culmination. You need to leave different, more. I need to do more than just thrill you, I need to help you become who you want to be.
It’s what separates a scene from sex, no matter how kinky it is. Just because I slip my hand around that delicate, elegant throat and squeeze upwards, doesn’t mean this is a scene. Just because I make you beg, over and over, for release, only to deny you and build you up all over again in the wreckage of the previous attempt, doesn’t mean that this is a scene.
That you left the room, an hour later, with a sense of catharsis that rooted deep down into your bones, bones that will ache for days, a body that will ache for a few days more, with a pervading sense of difference, like you’re better equipped to face the world beyond this door.
That makes this a scene.
I’ve seen a kind of insanity. It’s insidious, of the staring abyss variety.
It’s in the eyes of those who have ended up on the wrong side of Dominance, pushed past and loses control and power exchange to end up in a sort of living fantasy that borders on nightmare. It’s without all the checks and balances that define good play, without the aims and goals; it’s kink for kink’s sake, but even more than that it’s whimsical, fanciful, done without thought.
Make no mistake; there are things that I would like to do to you that would not leave you feeling good and well. There are things that would push you to a breaking point, and leave you trembling there, on the edge of things, ready to topple if you let yourself. These are things that sit in my mind with all the benevolence of a shark. They are powerful, and they are attractive, but, fundamentally, they are entirely based in fantasy, a conceptual thrill, but a practical horror.
You can dwell on that injustice, if you want. You can allow it to fill your mind with frustration and you can allow it to sour, turn into something that carries a little momentum. Then you can decide to see if, perhaps, all that intuition might have been misplaced, and really these are things that are safe to do. Perhaps you don’t even think at all.
It’s inevitable that playing with fantasy has an inherent danger to it, especially the kind of fantasies that we play with. But you have to be mindful, especially on top. Just as deal with danger, we also deal with vulnerability, and all of those pesky human emotions that get in the way of being mindless fucking machines that do nothing but rut and grunt. Acting without thought, as a Dominant, is just about the worst thing you can do. Consistently doing it is lunacy. A particularly malignant form of insanity.
I’m sure there are those out there who would laud it, call it brave, to put yourself so far out there, and seemingly keep your shit together. And I get the attraction, and I understand the appeal of someone who is so extreme as to send a thrill of fear down your spine, but to allow that fear to shift from a momentary distraction, to allow it to wrap around the core of you until it’s wormed its way into your wants and desires, is only going to end one way. The only difference between bravery and recklessness is the end result, and I’ve never seen a good one.
Going, Going, Gone
I was an arrogant prick when this all started. Perhaps fittingly, given the kind of things we’re dealing with, but that doesn’t really provide an excuse, only an explanation. I thought that the rules didn’t apply, that I could be cavalier, allow things to happen organically without planning or forethought, and common sense and a general sense of things would carry me through safely.
I was an idiot, my own brand of naive. Worse than that, I was dangerous.
The thing about rules is not that they’re absolutes. Their purpose is not to restrict, but to offer a bit of guidance. They’re the lines of best practice, to prevent you from slipping into the gutter and missing the pins entirely. Without rules all you have is inexperience and an overeager sense of things, and that’s a volatile mixture.
I’ve fucked up, more than once, and every time it’s happened it’s because I thought I knew better than the things I’d heard, been told. Most of the time it was innocuous enough; hurt feelings, bruised egos, nothing more, but I’m prone to dwell on the times when it could have gone even worse, properly done some damage, and the thought terrifies me.
Rules are meant to be broken, you may have been told. But the idea behind that is not that you should disregard them entirely, but that you should learn their purpose, understand their intent, and then decide how you want to subvert and bend them. To break you need something to hold onto, and that means you have to obey the rules before you can cause any fractures.
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Two Steps Back
You could accuse me of being a touch emotionally detached. You wouldn’t be the first, and, the way I’m going, I doubt you’d be the last. It carries over into my scening, too, even if only vestigially. I move like a scientist or a doctor, with an active curiosity. My movements are deliberate, but I’m not sure you could claim they had grace.
I have a goal, and I have an interest in achieving it. I want to see your reactions. I want to see what happens if I pinch your nipple, but I also want to see how quickly I can make it stir from soft and adorable into hard and eager. I want to twist it after I pinch, see if that gets a different reaction. I want to see how your face looks with my fingers lodged between your lips.
I want to know how you sound when you come. I want to understand how your mind processes all of this, where ‘fuck yes’ descends into unintelligible pleading, somewhere between 'no’ and 'yes’, but nowhere near 'stop’. I want to find out if you’re the kind of girl who’ll kiss me first, or if you’ll start from my neck, or my shoulder, and work your way up to my mouth. Adjusting your aim a little each time, until you hit your target.
I fuck like a scientist, searching for the Higgs Boson. I screw like a doctor trying to cure Ebola. I pound you like a therapist desperate to give you a break through, thinking that one more thrust and you’ll descend into cathartic sobs, weeping with joy at how simple it all suddenly is.
It’s not so much emotional detachment as emotional investigation. I want to know how you feel; my own aren’t quite as pertinent to me.
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Lip Service
Y'know, a pair of lips is a seriously weird thing. Softer than anywhere else on your body, and yet simultaneously oddly plump and malleable. Oddness excites me, always has, and so naturally I’m a tiny bit obsessed with the oddities that litter your body.
The first time I kissed you I bit them, because I wanted to see what you’d do. I imagine it hurt, hell, I know it did because you bit me back. But I think I bit harder. I have bigger teeth, after all, and I tugged awfully hard. Either way, it spurred you to kiss me harder, gave me all the encouragement I needed, and now it’s difficult for me not to bite them, pull on that bottom lip until it snaps back against your teeth.
But you react differently every time. Sometimes shy, somethings aggressive. I can push my thumb against your lips, force you to suckle on it like a child, and sometimes you’ll bite, and sometimes you’ll do what I want. Each time is a question, and each time I get my answer.
Even if I tie you up, I can’t tie that mouth up, Perhaps with a gag, but then I’m denying myself opportunity just as much as I am you. A ring, perhaps? But I don’t have a ring, and I’m not sure I want one. They seem awfully crass.
I like having that small oval of uncertainty, though, if I’m perfectly honest. I like leaving a little up to chance, up to you, so that you can surprise me every time, with your choices rather than just your reactions.
Bite, kiss, suck, lick. Pick your poison, I’m going to enjoy it either way.
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Stay A While
The things I do to you are not supposed to be fleeting. Each one is meant to stay with you, a little burden to be carried a little ways, before you grow strong enough that you don’t need it. Each one held in a different way, thought about through a different lens, your perspective shifting with distance, as you get further way from it. You need to look over your shoulder for a mile or two, until it’s out of sight, just a dot on the horizon.
This is never about impermanence. The compulsion towards D/s is driven by a desire to be changed, at the very least a desire to change, if only for a little while. If the change was reverted instantly, slipping back into your old self as if putting your clothes back on, this would be pointless. It would be a trip to the movies, popcorn littering your lap as the only evidence that you even did anything with the past couple of hours.
But like the best films, you take this one with you when you step past that door, filter yourself out with the crowd. The marks take a while to fade, and even when they’re gone the memory remains. Filed away and saved for later, when you’re left with an idle moment, and an idle mind wanders comfortably back to what happened, where. When the there’s a little distance between the now, and the then, and you don’t have to feel it quite so fiercely.
Yes, you’re here for the experience. You’re here for the sharpness of it, the vivid discomfort of every blow, each thrust. Of hearing those words that feel so exquisitely abusive on first listen, until they burrow down into the core of you, and do weird chemistry there that even you don’t understand, catalysing all that feels good.
But you’re here to have it, too. To take it with you, beyond the moment, and enjoy it over and over, the thought of it, the thrill. Until something better comes along, and you can savour that one, instead.
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Alley Cats
I want this to feel like backalley sex, where every moan is vying for airspace with the screech of a cat, and the relentless hubbub of city washing by in waves of pedestrians and traffic. I want you to hear the wail of the siren hit on the offbeat before my hand connects on the on.
It’s the grime on my hands as they slip over your porcelain skin, marring the surface of it, smearing filth onto your thigh as I cut a swathe through your mind. Pay no attention to the soft light against the curtain; there’s nothing comforting about this room, not with me in it. I want you to feel like there’s graffiti on the duvet, rubbing paint off against your stomach.
You shouldn’t feel clean. Cleanliness is not for the likes of you, it’s not on the list of priorities. You’re dirty on the inside, and I’m going to make you feel unwashed on the out. Sweat and sex covering you in a sheen, until you’re too exhausted to do anything but calcify, too tired to think of anything but a shower. Too ashamed for anything but a soak.
This isn’t about tearing you down so you can build yourself back up. This is about peeling back the layers until there’s nothing left but you, shivering in a pile of yourself, all the scuffed shreds of your self construction a sprinkled halo on the ground. But you’re no angel, you dirty little thing.
You’re mine.
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The Light Bringer
You may as well call me lucifer, because that’s what I am.
No, get your head out of the testament, that’s not what I’m talking about. Engage in a little etymology with me, if you will. Lux, that’s the start, the light, an illumination to shine on the dark corners of your psyche, descend into the basement of your mind and come out with something new, a bit of knowledge that you weren’t even sure you already had. Ferre? That’s the burden, the carry. To get you from here to there, from the start to the end. I’m your transport, if you’ll let me embark.
I’ve always found that the best way to garner control is not through deprivation, taking things away until desperation takes hold and renders you dependent, left with no choice but to acquiesce. It’s so inelegant, a brute’s course that searches for the line of best fit, but not necessarily the line of least resistance. Either way, you’re only ever going to get one result, and variance is the name of the game.
No, instead I find providing an abundance of choice is how you paralyse. Show a girl how terrifying a life without control is, and they’ll throw the reins at you as soon as blink. To paint a picture where control is the only real option for them to take, rather than to make it the only option. That way it’s a choice, an opt in, rather than a default. That way they feel good about the choice, illuminated, informed. That way, they doom themselves, rather than have to be rankled under your chains.
I hold the door open and I’ll watch you waltz right in, never paying attention to the subtle click of the lock as it slips into place behind you. Better than to barrel you through it and slam it shut before you have a chance to say a word.
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Sweet Escape
You have to start with a truth. The slightest cut, the kiss of a blade against tender skin. Hands around the throat, going past that moment of panic that flashes in your eye, a squeeze further than you wanted it to go. Another blow, another cane, another whip. A hard line that aims straight for the center of your head, right for the point where you need convincing. That you’re no longer in control. That, as much as I want you, care for you, as much as I’ll make sure you make it through this in one piece, I’ll spare you no quarter.
Even if everything beyond that is a lie, some elaborate facade to construct erect and embellish, filigree curling with beautiful fractals away from the center, even if every single action beyond this one is false, curtailed by control and care, kept just shy of damage and terror, even if all the fear is artificial and curated, it’ll be informed by that one powerful truth.
It’ll be the seed that grows. The doubt that gnaws. The one question that keeps your sense of self preservation completely aflame, alert and panicked, your entire train of thought a scattershot of worry and fear. You’re at the end of your tether, and you’re hovering there, on the brink. You’re waiting for the other shoe to drop, and that tension is ecstasy.
But when all is said and done, it’s the truth I feel bad about. None of the deception leaves a sour taste in the mouth, just that one moment where I had to convince you I was serious. Because that was going too far, even if just for a second. And that flash of true fear that scorched across your eyeline at that moment made me blanche, if just for a second.
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While You Wait
What do you think about, when you wait?
Is your mind full of what ifs, fluttering about with all the frailty reticent in new ideas? Do you wonder aloud, let your words float up the ceiling as you think about all the things I might do, may do, could do, have done? Does your mind wander, then, through places new and old, the familiar and the fantasy?
Or does your mind blank, trying to slip into some sort of trance, a way to while away the time between now and then, trying to cross the distance with the minimum of effort, as if, should you be able to empty your mind, you’d also empty it of the knowledge of time, and the ability to perceive its passing. Do you, then, lose yourself in the anticipation, let it override your body and overwhelm your mind?
I’d like to think it’s a little of both, an undulating rhythm between one and the next. I’d like to think you’re entirely obsessed, with nothing else to do but wait and play, keep yourself occupied while you wait for me to occupy myself with you. I’d like to think that you have nothing better to do, because I supersede all else. But then I always did have a vastly inflated sense of my own worth.
Instead, I imagine you let it tick away in the back of your mind, all of the above, the fantasising, the anticipating, and leave it there, a way of remembering, reminding yourself, while you keep yourself busy with all the things you have to do, should do. I imagine it’s nothing like my imagination, at all. Which makes it awfully fortunate that I’m so very good at conjuring my fantasies once I do arrive.
But then that’s why you anticipate it in the first place.
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Courageous Variety
This girl was fierce. Alive in all the right ways, coming out of the left field and not stopping until she’d streaked well past what was right and proper, left laughing and winded on the other side of the pitch. She was kinky, of course she was kinky. She smoked, but I didn’t really mind that. The bite of the tobacco in the back of my throat after we kissed tickled that tiniest of masochistic urges that dwells inside.
We were at a party one night, near Christmas, and she went out for a cigarette. It was cold, my jacket was warm, so I tagged along. It would be nice to get her alone, as I’d been undressing her visually all evening, and my hand was starting to itch, fingers drumming out a tattoo against my thigh as I half paid attention to conversation. I wanted to feel the beat of her heart through my thumb as I squeezed against her windpipe. I wanted to feel the tobacco scratch against my throat.
“You know you can slap me if you want to, right?” She’d just exhaled, and the heat from the smoke as it hung in the air seemed almost comfortable in the cold of the night. I couldn’t help but smirk.
“If you want to ask, just ask.” She just shrugged.
“Can you slap me?” So I did.
I’ve got big hands, and her face turned with the impact. It wasn’t even a heavy blow, just a fast one, the sting hanging around longer than the fingers ever had. The way her eyes stayed closed, her mouth hanging ever so gently open, made me want to kiss her. But instead I just smiled.
“Again?” She nodded. Yes, she’d liked that. So I slapped her again.
She was unafraid. Kink wasn’t anything secret to her, and I admired that about her. But when we finally got to the bedroom, she winced when she saw the pale light of the computer monitor, the soft glow of the bedroom lamp.
“Can you turn them off?” I was confused. I stated as much.
“I’ve just got.. issues.” It didn’t matter to me. The darkness wouldn’t take her away from me any more than the light, and I wasn’t planning on getting out the rope. Besides, my fingers knew the knots well enough to tie them without the help of my eyes, anyway.
What struck me was the contradiction of it all. She was so brave in so many ways, but that didn’t mean she wasn’t afraid in a few others. This isn’t some passport to universal courage, a way to escape all the things that make you anxious, afraid, alone. It’s not going to instantly make you gloriously happy with yourself, or remove your self esteem issues. It’s just its own thing, and you can’t expect it to be more than that.
The beauty, then, is in how it nudges you along all those paths, opens the doors, and lets you walk through them. It takes away some of the glare of the light, so you can look at yourself with a less critical eye.
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It’s All In Your Mind
It’s a funny kind of fear that I trade in. More Phantom of the Opera than Silence of the Lambs, riddled with melodrama and doubt rather than anything concrete and terrifying. The idea isn’t to render you catatonic, to paralyse you, but to instead open that one door in your mind that just seethes with inky blackness. The one that you can’t help but tilt your head slightly at, thinking about all the things that might lurk beneath that undulating facade.
It’s all theatre, and I hope that doesn’t lessen it in your mind. The thing is we’re playing with stage props and not real weapons, all the blood is just corn starch and food colouring, and the fangs are rubber. It felt real in the moment, though, right? When I came at you with that look in my eye, the psychotic words bubbling from my mouth and the latex gloves clinging tightly to my fingers. When I played the scissor blade across the underside of your breast, popped past the buttons on your blouse, and left you handcuffed to the toilet for an hour and a half wearing nothing but smeared mascara and scrawled marker.
But we both know this is just a Haunted House, with the appropriate proper nouns. This isn’t some dark force manifested in the mind of one man, and you’re not in any real danger. Your mind is tricked into fight or flight, the appropriate endorphins and adrenaline released so that you hop on a fast ticket to that special place where you just float and smile, and I have the exquisite pleasure of watching you go there, enjoying feeling the weight of your trust sitting comfortably in my palm. It’s theatre, melodrama, a happy lie we both buy into for the duration, before we both collapse, shattered and exhausted, and the whole thing comes tumbling down with us.
Then we can hold one another, and laugh at all the fucked up shit we do. And I sometimes wonder whether that’s why we do it, for the moments after when we get to just smile at the fact that we made it to the other side.
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Gentle Swell
I find the gentle curve of a neck visually irresistible The way it swoops downwards from the chin, a desperately sharp incline that suddenly mellows out into that beautiful delicacy, the windpipe surrounded by soft lines, tendons and muscles and skin, before being stemmed into the equally delicate base of the collar bones.
It’s a hard thing not to indulge, mostly because of all the things that are running through my mind like a ticker tape parade, each word another float, another jubilant celebration of sadism and all the darkly amusing things I’d like to do to such a pretty throat. You cant your head to the side and a whole new suite of muscles are brought into sharp relief, and my thoughts divert down the path of all the things that would look fitting on such a lovely neck. The things that could surround it, leash it, collar it. From chokers to ties, rope to collars. Leather, lace, and everything in between.
A neck makes a pretty focal point, not least because it manages to manifest all the emotions that run through your mind in the midst of your most aroused moments. You mentally constrict, your mind balling up into a tight wad of lust and sex, and my thumb presses down hard on your windpipe, cutting off your airflow and forcing you to writhe just a little bit harder. It’s a button, an immediacy of control that I can’t help but push.
I don’t want to strangle you, don’t make that mistake. It’s not about putting you in danger, or even making you feel like you are. Trust throbs at the very heart of things, and instead it’s about the knowledge of vulnerability it imbues, the idea that perhaps you are at my mercy, and that’s exactly where you want to be. A little deprivation with your deviation, if you please.
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Achilles
We fool ourselves into omnipotence. It’s the way you treat me, with such unquestioning adoration, it’s hard not to buy into your belief when there’s such conviction. But the omnipotence is a beautiful lie, and occasionally it’s going to be tested, and it’s going to come up short.
Words fail, and I falter. Platitudes bubble up to the front of my mind like a foaming mouth, rabid nerves jittering around before I pin them down and say nothing, instead. There’s nothing to say, no problem of evil to crush between the trifecta of omnis. The insurmountable, the unfixable, defeats me.
But then this isn’t a relationship that’s supposed to crush all problems underfoot like a wayward troll stomping through the brush. It’s not supposed to be unassailable, unaffected. Issues aren’t supposed to ricochet from us as if we were armoured. It’s not about ignoring the hits, it’s about taking them.
Without words, I’m left with physical contact. The counterpoint to all those blows I’ve laid upon you, resting in the palm of a gently placed hand. The top of your head, against your side, pulling you close because then, at least, I can protect you from the things ahead, even if I didn’t manage those behind. I fool myself into omnipotence, because you sell the illusion so very, very well.
It should be good that I’m occasionally reminded of that, but somehow that doesn’t make it an easy cross to bear.
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Thousand Yard Stare
I rarely feel as powerless as when you undress. Each piece of clothing tumbles from your body with all the urgency of an avalanche, and I just watch. It’s less an impotence and more a stasis, me put on hold while you do your thing, get ready for me. I watch, and my mind formulates, but it’s a window of time that doesn’t involve me, except to be the recipient, the passive. To observe, watch, stare. Not to do.
As oxymoronic as it sounds, Dominance isn’t entirely about power. That would be boring, a petty dictator sitting on his throne and demanding this and that, obedience without respect, just orders followed out of a sense of duty, because that’s how things go and your head will be forfeit if you decide to transgress. No, Dominance is about controlling the flow of power, directing it, allowing it to breathe like a fine wine, flooding it out and then calling it back in. You’re a thaumatologist, standing in a storm and controlling the lightning in an impossible miracle.
Because this is a power exchange, and that’s a transaction that never stops taking place. You slip down your stockings and I can’t help but smile, can’t help but allow you that power over me. I’ll take it back, every last iota, within seconds, but for the moment I’m happy to allow it to rest in your hands, let you understand the weight of things before you surrender yourself to them. Because, after all, you can’t understand your sacrifice unless you know what you’re sacrificing.
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A E I O U
It’s not that children are gullible it’s just that they haven’t been lied to as much. They don’t have the experience necessary to be suspicious the natural cynicism that protects them from bullshit like a firmly held umbrella with a low canopy. It’s why they’re more open to the illusion of magic, fairy tales that wander through their mind like babes in the wood, eyes wide and impressionable. They leave a mark.
But disillusionment stomps through, and leaves nothing but broken bark and crushed grass behind, a devastation of adult proportions.
The idea of names having power was one that stuck with me, fading into a background buzz before coming back to the fore once I'd barreled my way through the teens. I can say a name and gravitas oozes out of the words, retroactively instilling whatever statement predicated it with impetus and urgency. It can be a reprimand, or a sobering moment. It can give and it can take.
But more than that, I’ve realised that the spoken word is inherently powerful. The hypnotic power of the well moderated tone can supersede any physical force I can bring to bear. I can tie you up, pin you down, slap you around and overwhelm you, but I can’t hope to place you in that comfortable, muted subspace unless I have the right words, and the right voice to carry them. More to the point, I could do all that without laying a hand on you, merely hitting you with the right sentence.
It’s why, you may have noticed, you’re reading this. It’s why you come back here, night after night, and dwell on the things I have to say, when you don’t know me, and I don’t know you. My hands couldn’t be further from your throat, or between your legs, and yet I can evoke the exact same feeling with the perfectly placed onomatopoeia, or a succinct sibilance that puts the hairs on the back of your neck on edge, upright, alert. I can make you slouch in your chair, a hazy smile coalescing on your face, and I can make you bite your lip and smile. I can make you blush.
And I can whisper a thousand nothings in your ear, and I can do so much more, without all the pomp, all the circumstance, that you find in rope, in cable ties, in plugs and floggers and paddles. Although, I will admit, they are a nice addition.
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