#like a great ship

It can rest in your mind, too, but that’s an altogether more insidious kind of addiction. That’s your mind, your brain, chasing a high and a feeling that it can’t manufacture on its own. There’s no physical urge beyond what you imagine, ants under the skin and they just have to get out. It’s your mind playing tricks on you, finding an excuse to get back into that situation again, get the stuff, get that feeling. Chase that high. 

D/s is a kind of addiction, an endorphin rush that you’d struggle to replicate in any other way. The sting of the palm against your rear, the sting in my palm when I strike you, both sides of the same coin, both equally intoxicating. Once you’ve had a taste you can’t go back, can’t revert to vanilla life any more than you can go back to crawling once you figure out how to walk. At least, not without me telling you to.

But there’s something about those physical addictions. I want to manage one, be the keeper of your happiness, have the packet of cigarettes under my jacket pocket, while you squirm around on the floor racked with cravings. I think that’d be a different kind of power. I think that would be a little more intoxicating. I think it might wander over moral grey areas with reckless abandon, and I think I could end up in a situation that’s altogether unseemly.

But that doesn’t change the urge, the desire. It doesn’t change the fact that the very idea of it turns me on, that the utter dependence doesn’t have it’s allure. It’s just a fantasy that will remain such, because I think that’s a rabbit hole I could very easily tumble down until I find myself in a land that doesn’t have so much wonder.