#erotic prose
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Past Self
It’s impossible not to feel like we’re slipping back into childhood with a lot of this. It’s the same systems, bubbling up to the surface like so much carbonation, and implemented with all the nonchalant lack of care of people in love. We do it because it feels good, and to hell with whatever consequences that might have.
Hide and seek skirts around the edges while the occasional food fight spurts in the center. Half mumbled comments and strict bedtimes, spontaneous curfews and all those rules. Rules bursting at the seams of your clothes, rules dribbling out of your ears. It’s no wonder that you regress a little bit. It’s no wonder I accelerate through maturity, find myself displaying a flair for the authoritarian keeper, rather than the whimsical twenty something.
But there’s the thing; it’s all just paradigms crashing into each other, and they all fall away like waves anyway. Things rise and fall, and none of them stick around all that long. Sometimes you notice the childishness, and othertimes you’re utterly lost in it. And as much as it might make you uneasy to see your adulthood slip away in the middle of a scene, it’s taking with it all those things you can’t stop fretting about. Your worries and your fears, all the little things that build and build until you’re just about ready to dissolve into a puddle of sex.
Which is handy, as that just so happens to be my line of work.
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The River
My fingers still fumble around the rope, you know. It’s not that the knots are particularly hard, or that my hands aren’t up to the task. That would imply laziness where there’s just inexperience. The hesitance of the unfamiliar. I watch men, better tyers, slide the rope through their fingers like it’s a fluid, like they’re just channeling the hemp, the jute, the silk, letting it flow and meld and double back on itself. I am jealous of those men.
But it flows a little through mine. It trickles, stopping and starting, juddering to a halt when I twist it the wrong way, or wrap it from the wrong end. It meanders rather than bolts, if you’d rather, dawdles instead of sprints. The way I make rope move has space for a snack stop at the halfway point.
Miraculously, the end result is somehow barely different from the adepts. It still coils around itself with a pleasing uniformity, and the binding is still strong, and tight, and ever so secure. It still squeezes the part of your brain that gets off on all of this, and I still sit back and marvel at my own handiwork. It still leaves marks in your skin when I eventually unwind it from your wrists.
The stream will grow faster, with time. I’ll learn, and I’ll improve, and the rope will burst through my fingers with the same vigor that I witness in the hands of those other men. The result will still be the same, but it will be achieved with considerably more efficiency. There’ll be less space for your mind to wander, the thoughts to creep back in, and the spell to threaten to shatter. Because this is only ever about maintaining momentum, and any pause is a threat to that carefully engineered atmosphere.
And we couldn’t have that.
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History
There’s an unspoken, unthought truth that hovers in the air during the first time you fuck. It’s a vicious, nasty little fact, and one that you have to be aware of, even if you don’t want to acknowledge it. Ringing in your ears, it can easy sound like defeat, like you’re passing the finish line a long time after the first place.
And that’s the truth; that you’re not the first. That you’re the latest in a line, and every movement and technique is another testament to that fact. The way you curl your tongue around the head of me, a trick you learnt when you were 17 and overeager. Clenching your cunt around the width of me, perfectly in time to every thrust. Learnt at 19, when you’d had a little more practice, had the basics down. The noise you make when you come, perfected a thousand times, day after day, month after month. Refined through instinct and repetition, staying with you as you went from a girl to a woman.
Maybe it’s not that much of a thing, really. Maybe it’s just something boys think about, because the thought of my mouth being where another mouth has been, my cock being where another cock has been, slipping a hand inappropriately between my legs and uncomfortably squeezing my manhood, threatening it. Maybe it’s one of those things that I’ve come to accept, and even come to relish.
Because I’m not coming in last, until the next guy slots in last behind me. Because that first was a clumsy attempt at sex, the next a little more refined. I get to enjoy the culmination of your sex life, every success and every lesson learned from every mistake. And then I get to shape you, in whatever way that I can, leaving you with a few more signatures for the next guy.
And tonight, that’s enough.
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My Very Own Marley
It’s incredible how completely a girl can permeate a place. Their presence pervading throughout a volume, contained within the four walls of the room but pushing that containment to its absolute limit. After I’ve had you, it’s hard to go back to a time when I haven’t.
It’s the smells of the sheets, slightly enhanced by the way you gushed all over them. The mark on the headboard where your hands were tied, the light scratch where your nail seared across it. The phantom of your perfume, hiding in the air, waiting in ambush.
The most surprising reminders are the ones heavily associated with myself. The shirt I was wearing, perhaps, or the cologne I’d sprayed earlier that night. The feel of the stubble on my chin, a few days old, repeated a week later, and instantly placing me back in that night. A dozen minor time machines, each one waiting to spring their trap and drag me back there.
They’re replaced in time, as a thousand mundane memories overwrite the association created in that one intense evening, but each time they’re refreshed they linger a little longer. You’re a spectre in my room, waiting for me to shiver as you pass through me.
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Stretch Goals
You measure your life out in the rituals and habits that you punctuate your time with. The precise moment you shut off your alarm before the racket really kicks in, the side of the bed you get out of. The pillow you use. The coffee you drink, the route you take to work, the exercise you do. How long, how far, how hard. You turn yourself into an amalgamation of activities until you feel like you’re properly defined. As if, through the expression of habit, you can feel out the edges of your personality.
And every time you step outside of those habits, life becomes a little less certain, and a little more unpredictable. You become a little less certain and a hell of a lot more unpredictable. You surprise yourself, surprise the rigorous outlines that you’ve established for yourself, and push and break past the boundaries and borders that you once thought were so very well maintained.
You find yourself with your fingers around the handle of a knife, when you swore that that wasn’t something you were interested in. You find yourself waking up next to someone when you ensured yourself you were going to take it easy for a while. You find yourself somehow able to let it all wash past you without falling apart, without having the edges of your personality burst, and your very selfhood come gushing out in a great tidal wave of anxiety.
So much of D/s is about bolding those outlines, shoring them up nice and tight and using protocols and habits reassure you that you are who you say you are, your tastes lie exactly where you thought they did. And so much of it is about exactly the opposite. Pushing, pulling, twisting and contorting you in all the ways you never thought you might bend, until you’re barely recognisable, and yet completely aware. And it’s those times that really define you, that really show you who you are. It’s not about the affectations but the effects, how you handle things not how you’ve learnt to allow life to handle you.
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At the risk of fundamentally compromising my air of authority, make me a cat. Leave a sparse thread of yourself out in the air, dangling in front of my face. Jiggle it, just the slightest amount, and I’ll go for it like it’s the last meal on earth, sprinting for the horizon. Pique my curiosity, make me interested.
I don’t want to be distracted; that’s not what I’m saying. It’s not even really about being engaged. I can have an interesting conversation, be interested in the person I’m having it with, without ever truly perking my ears and having the thought flit across my mind like an errant streaker: “I wonder what her moan sounds like”. Whatever quality it is that spurs that, it’s more ephemeral than either of us would like it to be.
I’d tell you to add a little flair, set yourself out from among the crowd, but affected difference is, if anything, even more tiresome, as it doesn’t speak to a deep well of a person so much as an attempt to render a puddle an ocean with a cheap scarf and a haughty attitude.
That’s unfair, and I’m painfully aware of that fact. The old adage of ‘be yourself’ was always so cruelly barbed, poised to backfire on the anxious, and irrelevant to those without insecurity. Instead, I’d like to amend it. It’s not so much “be yourself”, as knowing, the old temet nosce, that really cultivate curiosity in the most aloof of people.
Because that’s really what I’m interested in. Knowledge, and the exploration of it. Know who you are, and why you do the things you do, and suddenly you’re opening doors left and right, running down a corridor with your arms outstretched, and each one fans out like feathers on wings. To compound my idioms for a moment, if the first step to knowledge is admitting you know nothing at all, imagine how much of yourself you’re barely even aware of.
So pull at that thread, start to unravel yourself, and that’ll be the moment that I’ll try to capture, the one time that I’ll want to step on, put my hand on yours, and pull back in unison.
That this all manifests into physical threads, and physical ropes, is just the sadistic cherries on the masochistic pie.
The most effective way to remove a bad habit from your life is to take away the option in the first place. If you have a predeliction towards overindulging in ice-cream, give the Ben and Jerry’s a pass next time you’re at the supermarket. At least that way you have to put on your shoes and head out the door in the search of frozen delicious next time the urge takes you. And you’ll have to go twice as far if it hits you in the middle of the night.
D/s is creating a framework of honesty, that removes the option to not communicate by forcing you into situations where a lack of honesty would lead to serious problems that manifest quickly and without mercy. It isn’t so much about avoiding lies of omission as forcing truths out of both of you over and over again. And I’m not talking about some intangible, cosmic truth that will bring your world back into focus. I’m talking about the nuts and bolts of a relationship. Thrust them into the framework of Dominance and submission and you’re all but submerging the punctured bicycle tire into water. You’re going to see the problem very quickly, clear as day.
I’m not saying there won’t be problems. I’m not saying there won’t be lies. I’m not even saying that a relationship that wouldn’t work without D/s will with it. But from all my dealings on the subject, the way that it has permeated not only the way I approach things, but my very personality and perception, it makes it very difficult for me to properly deceive myself. It requires far too much self reflection, and self acceptance, to tolerate any true denial.
And, as controversial as it might sound, I think that there is no relationship on earth that doesn’t manifest the D/s dynamic in one shade or another. Perhaps not all the time, and perhaps not always in one partner’s favour or the other, but in any one instant there will be something at play, one side ebbing while the other flows. D/s is a declaration of that truth, to accept and acknowledge it, and then push yourselves to the natural extreme.
I don’t want this to read as propaganda, but instead a window into a perception that has been so coloured over the past few years by this singular facet. I’ve heard people label themselves ‘lifestylers’, and for the longest time I would secretly scoff, utterly incredulous that they could possibly be 'on’ for that long, without reprieve. I now realise that, at least for me, it means something else. That there is no part of you that is left untouched, no part wholly innocent of that philosophy or way of thinking.
It sounds like it might be a problem, and who can say, perhaps it is. But for the moment it feels wholly honest, both to me and the people that I deal with, those that I can talk to about these things. It affords me the opportunity to be unashamed, unblinking and resolute, and I’ll tell you now that there is no sensation on earth that empowers me more.
Excusing, if you will, the actuality of it all.
Ahem.
I want to take all of your air. Hold it hostage until I see honesty in your eyes. Affectations stripped away from you like so many clothes to slither off on the floor, ashamed and useless. I want to see the you under you, before you lathered on neurosis and insecurities. I want to see what colour desperation is on you.
It’s what you want, isn’t it? It’s the idea you flirt with, the one you flutter your eyelashes at, imagine when you lie in bed at night, hand planted between your legs, trying to make something grow. To be pushed, cajoled, urged towards the edge of… whatever it is, a purity of sorts.
So let’s take away the theatre. Dismiss the audience, sack the orchestra, and send all the other players home early. Dismantle the stage, until it’s just you and me on the wooden boarding, with nothing but each other left. Let’s hear you beg, let’s hear it without the moans, and the little inserted whimpers between every other word. Let’s hear the truth of it.
You say you want to be afraid, but I’m not sure you know what fear is, not really. There’s a wistfulness to your voice, as if its some whimsical idea that you can entertain of an afternoon, writhe around in until you get a sense of it without ever really brushing up against the reality. You say you want to be truly controlled, totally at my mercy, but I’m not sure you know what you’re saying.
Because I want metamorphosis. I want change, manifested in you, to watch the transformation from enjoyment to realisation to whatever is on the other side of that. I want you to leave different to when you arrived, take something on to carry with you. I want you to learn, but I don’t know what I want to teach. There’s a black hole between you and me, and I fear it’s sucking us both in. We’ll be crushed.
Hold a little back. Do it for me. Retain a little control, just a touch, a smidgen, enough that it can be a ripcord if you need it to be. Enough that you can pull me back from the brink, if I stare off that edge so long I start to look crazed. Look out for me, with the corner of your eye, and I’ll look out for you.
I look different, reflected in your eyes. My proportions shift, and I become a different man.
I’d say your eyes were like a funhouse mirror, but that’s making you the perpetrator of the reflection, and I have to admit it’s my own construction, a narrative I’ve slowly built around you. Tied you up with. Perception like a rope, making sure you look that way and not this.
It’s not that it’s so far from the truth, nor is it particularly deceptive, really. Just a pooling of thought down certain alleyways, past closed doors that were locked beforehand, until you’re in the right place in the right frame of mind. You see me, and I see how you see me, and it breaks my heart every time.
Because you’re seeing the best in me, each aspect amplified to a deafening roar, a crash against the rocks that suggests a force of nature, some all powerful Poseidon that is unflinching, stoic, ever-powerful. You’re seeing the waves, but I see what causes them, the ideas that compound on one another until they’re dense enough to swallow me whole, turn me inside out and leave nothing but a wet puddle on the floor. I see all the ways I could be the worst, abhorrent, repulsive. The suppressed urges that are buried so deep I wonder if they were anything but imagined, ever, if they’re just fears of fears, shadows in the periphery.
In your eyes I don’t see these things, and their absence makes them all the more noticeable. You ask what’s wrong, occasionally, when the mask slips, and that’s when I smile. A smile to match yours, one mouth mirroring the other, an invitation for them to meet. It’s a delaying tactic, no doubt, but it’s an effective one. Your hand might grace my cheek, mine might run down your side, and then chemistry and biology clash in a wonderful distraction. Fireworks behind a car crash, distracting the rubberneckers.
I wonder what you see. Whether my eyes are as reflective as yours. Do you see the gratitude, the appreciation, the love and the care, or are they as I fear, windows, each one a gaping cavern that suggests probable cause, unheeded intent.
But your smile never wavers, not because of me. I think I’m safe.
Trust me, he says, as if it will do you any good.
Trust me, a reassurance that carries all the weight of a threat, something to settle heavy on your stomach, pin you to the ground and hold you in place until it’s far too late. Trust me, I say, to make you understand that I know what I’m doing, that you’re In Good Hands.
Hands that will hurt you. Hands that will pin you down, tie you up, and stroke the fear from your face. Hands that will tease you, hover over you until you’re writhing, more beast than girl, desperate for that contact. Hands that you’ve been wondering about, even from the first time. About the length of the fingers, the heft of the palm. About what they might feel like, how strong they might be. Good hands, he says, and the sarcasm stinks on those words.
Trust me, and you believe it. Which should make you a fool, cavalier bravado leading you down one alley too many, but you’re no idiot. Reckless, then, might fit you better, like borrowed clothes almost in your size. Hurling yourself off the abyss in the vain hope that someone will be there to catch you. That I will be, the man who said trust me.
But fear doesn’t work like that. You’re scared of the dark not because of the darkness itself, but what it might contain. The things you don’t know, the monsters you haven’t thought of yet. Fear preys on ignorance, and you, little girl, don’t know the things I’ll do to you. That’s why you’re excited. That’s why you’re afraid.
That’s why you need to trust me.
‘Trust me’ should be terrifying, the fear ratcheting up relative to how earnest I say those words. Because trust is a key that opens doors. It’s the foundation that allows all of these things, the ones that skitter in the dark, make you lie in bed staring at the ceiling trying to imagine, in the vaguest sense, what they might be like, to finally break free and burst into reality.
Trust is Pandora, which I think makes me the box.
That Time of Year
Give pause. Take a moment to just savour it, taste it on your tongue and become aware of exactly what is going on. Because this isn’t going to happen all the time, these aren’t going to be all that common. Even in a relationship even when it’s a nightly occurrance, that’s still only one hour out of twenty four. Just over 4% of the time, a mere glimmer in the wide scheme of things. So take your time with it, and I don’t mean linger and dawdle. I mean sieze it, grab it, make it your own and don’t just let it blur past, one encounter among many, all of them vague and hazy.
If nothing else, this little world has caused more self-reflection than most, more moments when I’ve suddenly slipped back a little, realised what I’m in the middle of, who’s on my lap, and how much they’re enjoying things. It becomes almost surreal, a little alien vignette that I can’t quite comprehend, and wouldn’t dream of changing. It’s everything I want, fantasy made flesh, and somehow, through some divine grace, my life is the one that’s managed to stumble upon it.
So I’m grateful, it’s that time of year, right? Grateful that I’m aware enough to enjoy it, and smart enough to understand it. Grateful that I can bring my hand down upon you, and feel the sting of it hours later, conjure up a sensation as if it was a file in a cupboard, and savour it all over again. Remember the clench of your hungry little cunt around my fingers, the soft little ‘O’ of your mouth as you came, and the arch of your back as you shuddered back to earth. I’ve enjoyed every second, taken my time with it, made sure to remember each one. There’s a little blur, around the edges, but most of it’s intact.
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Basic Instinct
Focus on it too much, and it would be easy to write off eroticism as an entirely physical pursuit, that it’s too intrinsically biological, too completely absurd, for it to be taken seriously if it didn’t make us hard and wet. We’d laugh each other out of the bedroom with all those bits that flap and sway. It must be impulse, the biological need for us to not see it as something funny, just so that we can continue as a species.
But what little that explains is so far from all that is sexual that such an idea is what’s absurd, rather than the action itself. Kink, and perversion, and even the more vanilla; oral sex, anal sex, make no sense if that’s what you’re going on. I’ve heard kissing is something about assessing the immune system of a potential mate, but quite so much? Nah, there’s something more at play there.
And it would be easy to just write that off as the mental side, but I think it’s more base than that. It’s the rationalisation of these absurd instincts, this irrational desire for someone else that you can’t explain, and you have no control over. Attraction isn’t something you choose, and yet here we are, attracted and being attractive. Turn it into a game, something you can twist and turn and enjoy in all sorts of ways, and you’re imposing just about as much autonomy as it’s possible to impose.
It’s why I enjoy watching two girls kiss, and why my hips will involuntarily thrust forwards when you tease me with that delicious tongue. It’s why I tie you up, and why I like hurting you so very, very much. Well. It’s one of the reasons.
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Row, Row, Row Your Boat
I pride myself on having a certain finesse, marrying the primal urges of my sadism and dominance with a civilised decorum, a bearing that makes my actions seem as considered as I imagine them to be. Deliberate, elegant, poised.
Only, there are certain activities where the mask slips, and you can’t help but see the raw id underneath. Rope treads the line, as rope is wont to do, between brutality and beauty, but when you start involving cast iron in the equation, shackles and bars and rough, heavy collars, any notion that this was some high class pursuit, wandering around the green with mallets laughing at croquet or riding around the garden enjoying a spot of polo, flies out of the window.
This isn’t some Millistic ideal of the higher good, wafting above the perceived bad smell of animilistic urges. This isn’t that kind of Utilitarianism, where you can filter out different parts of the human psyche like oil and water. They’re mixed, one great big dark mess that swirls and whirls with all the beauty and power of a hurricane. It’s the mental and the physical and everything in between. It’s the considered thought and the instinct, riding hard together, all aiming to reach the same goal.
Sometimes I forget that, slip into that detached aloofness that serves me so very well. Sometimes I wander away from the primal because, in all honesty, there’s some fear there, a heart of darkness that will carry me all the way down a dark river until I do something I can’t quite control. And, on so many levels, a loss of control is the last thing I want.
But that’s to ignore its power, and the allure of that base desire. There’s something more pure about it, all the frills, the pomp and the circumstance, all stripped, leaving a strong core that has no allusions. There’s less to worry about, and less to think, too. Just that one idea, a driving force that will carry me to where I want to go.
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That Glazed Look
I have all my best thoughts watching other people. It’s why I often dip into lulls at parties, sitting there with a half vacant stare on my face. It makes sense to me, after a fashion, because the inspiration is hanging thick in the air like so much perfume, teasing and tantalising my mind with just about the most heady concoction imaginable.
It’s in the things people do, the little movements and half lost sentences that drift off into nothingness when they realise the other person has become distracted. It’s the pauses, the smiles, the occasional glances, sometimes snatched, sometimes lingered.
It’s the writer in me, I’m sure of it. Sitting in the back of my mind with a flashlight in his mouth, shining shaky light on a notepad as he desperately scribbles down everything that he sees. It’s about saving it for later, to turn into something fictional, steal the seed of someone’s action, the heart of that moment, and slot it into something of my own construction, the perverted golemancer, giving his own creations life precariously through that of others.
I might feel guilty if I was more of a plagiarist. If I was taking a whole person, rather than dribs and drabs that I sew together in a patchwork of people, something approximating a character that’s not recognisable as any one person, it might be a punishable offense. Something to feel bad about. But they’re just moments, traits, slight personality ticks that could be anyone’s. Are anyone’s.
So that’s what I’m doing, in those moments when I get a little quiet, seem to be a little lost. I’ve opened my mind and I’m scooping it all in, everything grabbed for sorting at a later date. I’ve become a sponge, and you’ve got no option but to be sucked right in, I’m afraid. Maybe I’ll write you a credit one of these days.
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It’s tempting to think that mundanity, your everyday life can be a form of protection. That, through the sheer normality of it all, you’re safe from the kink, the fetish, the depraved things that I’m going to do to you. You think that your tight skirts and your smart blouses and your work heels are things that instil an inherent innocence, the setting and use of them so inherently unsexual that to suddenly insert the perverted into them would be a taboo too far.
But, my dear, there is never a taboo too far. You’re not safe, because safety is an illusion that you buy into whenever you leave this house. You think you’re protected by your job title, and the desk you sit behind. You think that all of these things provide a sort of cocoon, a place away from the bedroom, away from me.
Not that you’d ever actually think these thoughts. They’re just assumptions that you’ve let slip into your day to day, a belief that’s gone unchallenged. That’s all very well, until that first time you get home and settle in for the night only to find me walking into the room, cuffs in tow. The first time I send you to work with a plug in your rear keeping my come from leaking out. The first time you leave your panties behind and can’t stop thinking about me and my bedroom for the entire day.
You’re not safe. You were never safe. And nothing is going to give you that safety from me, because I am your safety. Your protector. The one thing you have no protection against.
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Safety feels like such an alien concept, something that you can never truly know, not in its entirety. Just something that you get to understand by degrees, finding your way away from insecurity and fear and into something where those slip from primary to secondary concerns, before falling back into something altogether tertiary.
There are moments where you feel safe, though. They’re the moment where you don’t think, where you just allow yourself to be rooted in the now, just my arms around you, and your legs around me. A tangle of limbs that is stronger for the mess it causes, regardless of quite how structurally unsound it all is. The engineer laments the moment we fall back into one another, a chuckle from me, a giggle from you.
But this is not a solemn moment. It’s not something where hands are restricted to the PG zones of your body, where the opportunity for the salacious and the perverted aren’t rife. And my hands will wander, because they’re attached to my brain, and my brain avoids the solemn like a plague. I’ll still be squeezing, slipping, suggesting with my fingers, regardless of exactly how tender or sweet a moment it might be. You could be thinking nothing short of love, and I’d be just as obsessed with sex as ever.
Which isn’t to say I don’t dwell on love in those moments, too, but then love has always been inextricable from sex for me, anyway.
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The chemicals that flood your brain when you orgasm are a short lasting truth serum, the kind of barbiturate that forces the words that are flung from your mouth like fireworks to be nothing but God’s honest. You cannot tell a lie, because you cannot think, little girl.
I’m not going to pretend that I learn any hard truths here, except whether you still believe in God, even if only when you’re in that foxhole of the body, when your conscious thoughts are forced into hiding while your subconscious shells it with endorphins and misfiring synapses. Or maybe I’ll finally know whether you’re the kind of girl that says ‘Fuck!’ or 'Shit!’ or just 'Yes!’ over and over. Maybe it’s a combination of all three.
What I’m keeping my ears perked for, though, is the names that you call out. It might not happen every time, but the first time I hear my name, whichever name it is that we use, I’m going to start grinning. My hands are going to start moving faster, or, if you’re lucky enough, my thrusting hips are going to start pummelling you with increased vigour. Because that, right there, is a victory cry, a white flag raised between your teeth, hovering above your head.
Because once you call out my name, in that specific moment, I know that I’ve conquered your subconscious just as I conquered the rest of your thoughts.
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“I like the idea of feeling in control of losing control.”
I could hear the sense of relief in her voice, and I tried not to smile too much.
It’s rare to hear a concept boiled down so succinctly into a single sentence. To have so much of the good present, of the why and the how of it right there, in between each word, practically beaming with pride and satisfaction. For it to come from the mouth of someone who hasn’t even done anything yet, who’s interest is only fledgling at best.
Consent, even when freely surrendered, hangs over a scene like a referee, waiting to flag a foul and pull out the red flag to stop play. Without it there’s no game, there’s no scene, there’s no kinky fuckery or fun depravity. The moment something is not ok is the moment that something stops happening, should stop happening, must stop happening. It’s where the trust comes in, to enable you to feel in control, even when you’re losing your grip on it. It’s handed from one person to another, and you have to know that they’re going to act as you would, given that power.
I don’t want to be a monster, as much as I might don the mask of one. To cast away hyperbole, I don’t even want to be of questionable moral fibre. I want to be reliable, trust worthy, and good, even as I do things that require hours of context to be deemed as such. And so there’s a duty to cultivate awareness, both of me and of you, and adhere to that. To know when enough is enough, and to know when it isn’t. Best interests and all that.
The thing to bear in mind is that this is all temporary. There is no such thing as a permanent surrender, to ever truly, wholly give yourself over to another person, transfer possession of your power across to me. As seductive as such an idea might be, it’s fantasy. Instead it’s only ever power lent, control borrowed. Taken back at a moment’s notice, a word burst from your lips that removes your consent from the scene, and expects that to be acknowledged and reacted to.
Because anything less than that would be abuse. Anything less than that would be morally reprehensible, even if the idea of being utterly at the whim of another seems like an enjoyable fantasy.
We put checks and balances in place when we are of sound mind, to protect ourselves from the times when we are not. And we owe it to ourselves to then follow our better judgement, for that very quality of being better than we are now.
There’s no shame in that. A moment’s awkwardness saving you from a lifetime of regret.
The thing about denial is that it’s mutual.
And as much as you give me those eyes, that’s the part I think you’re a little too distracted to ever quite understand. That I want to give the release as much as you want to feel it, but I’m hanging on by the whites of my knuckles because I know that each second of frustration will be paid back tenfold. So I push, and I wait, until frustration tumbles into desperation, and you stop looking at me because you can’t really control where you look any more. You’re just balled fists and an undulating body that is rolling to a brand new time signature.
Except you can disregard that sentiment, at least in part. Because we’re not really in this together, as much as I might romanticise the idea. Yes, I’m as turned on as you are. Yes, I want to see you spill over into ecstasy almost as much as you do, and yes, I’m pushing you until you start to creak and crack because it’s worth it, all that, because of what happens afterwards. But the secret (not so secret), is that I get to enjoy you the whole time.
It’s its own little climax, seeing you like this. A reduction of a person, blown way out of proportion. You, seen through the reverse end of a binocular, filling up the landscape with the beautiful swell of your personality, expressed without vocabulary beyond four letter words and solitary vowels, and all the body language required to create a whole new dictionary filled with slowly sliding arms, arched backs and shuddering hips.
I can drink it all in, every drop, swallow an ocean of you, from the moment I start until the moment I let you fall, be consumed by yourself, drowned in it. It feels like I can get a handle on you, as a human being, and all that that entails, in that stretched, escalating yawn of time. Not necessarily know you, in the sense that anyone can known anyone else, but more get the sensation. Feel your personality brush against my palm, so that I could almost grasp it.
We all have our own little distractions.
