So… D/s and power stuff?
Nope nope nope let’s think about something else.
This has been my thought cycle the past couple days. A bundle of thoughts sitting patiently, waiting for me to stop being afraid of them.
I don’t like being afraid of my thoughts.
The music is playing quietly in the background and I sink into it, breathing slowly. Steady and clear. It’s a back-and-forth dance, a push and pull. Over and over I see her fighting; his hand, slowly, coming down, ignoring her flailing limbs, to press against her throat. The instant calm. That.
I don’t know that I know how to explore the concept of my own submission, except that it’s been so long since I felt any kind of pull toward it. It doesn’t look passive or gentle. It smells like raw woods, the hunt and hunted, trapped and caught, terrified and fighting back. It’s not ritual and protocol. It’s not a easy drop, but a sudden one. I’m not waiting by the door on my knees with a collar on (and I’m not knocking that kind of D/s; it’s just not me).
I’m watching you with considering eyes and a slow smile. We’re on opposite sides of the room and I’m stepping forward, toward you, waiting to see if you take a step too. I’m watching your hands flex unconsciously. They are itching for my throat; will you reach for it, for me? Or hold them steady by your side?
Closed eyes. A hand reaches around from behind me, locks and pulls me closer. I sink back into it. The pain starts and I start to pull away from it, straining against the hold. “For me,” a quiet whisper against my ear, and I stop struggling and breathe. For you.
I am painted and stained with the ferocity of my own desires. I cannot sink into it without coming up filthy and covered in tar. Because it is not graceful or gentle or easy. It’s raw and open and hard. It is every bit as filthy and violent as it looks. It is not pretend, or roleplay. It is force and acquiescence. It’s an ask in eyes that hold cruelty framed in tenderness. It’s giving me enough movement that I exhaust myself before you ever touch me.
It’s cold but not without passion. Violent, in a necessary way. An acceptance of cost, of price. To love the ways I want to love, this is the exchange. You can have what you want, but only if you are willing to sink into sludge and stain yourself with desperation and shame. The desire to escape. The need to be caught. The tension between feeling trapped and being strong enough to withstand.
Staring at the pool, the dark surface calm, no movement, no ripples. Side-by-side, your hand in mine; our heads turn to look at each other. We dive together or not at all. If I coat you in this, in me, I will do it with my bare hands and they will come up filthy.
This is what I sink into, the bundle of thoughts waiting, patiently. They don’t go away, even though I forget they are there, sometimes. Even when I am actively running away from them, they sit, watch me run in a closed loop around them, spiralling closer.
I don’t trust this much. Perhaps that’s the point.
Let me fight and run and circle and let my body expel extraneous movement. Sit quietly, wait. My submission comes with a single movement, something small, that counters the ways my body flails. What you say with your eyes will always hit deeper than your words.
I feel the terror rising up. I can’t do this, I can’t do this with you, we can’t do this, I can’t go here, this is too much, I’m free-falling and don’t have a net to catch me, I’m grasping and clinging and drifting away. You sit quietly and watch. Watch me unmake and remake myself in rapid succession, a flickering image shifting and changing and swirling. I’m scrubbing my face with a towel, with sheets, trying to wash the filth away and you touch my back softly, covering me in sticky tar that I cannot wash off that pours from your fingertips. I’m coated in it, covered and it is then, only then, when you meet me in this, that I can pull your face to mine and be present with you. Only when I know we both want to be here.
It feels big. So, so big. I don’t know how to talk about these things. I don’t know how to bring these things up or ask for these things. I have always hidden behind the understanding that there is an organic flow to this, that it cannot be planned or contrived, but emerges of its own accord. I don’t do D/s (except for this infinitely patient bundle of thoughts that sit, steady and unyielding, that remind me that submission is the other side of the mirror, that there are depths I cannot plunge without staining my skin with the grotesque violence of my own desires. I can accept this, or not; but if not, then I will never reach the end of the chasm). I am nothing all the time (and this is not 24/7 TPE; these are discrete moments, heavy switches, sometimes yes, sometimes no, and the difference between is a hair’s width and a canyon deep and easy to see), but I am this, sometimes.
And it is real. Poignantly, terrifyingly, violently real. This is shame and rage and humiliation and terror and fight. This is not a game, nor is it an elaborate scenario that we have constructed and follow the parts and lines and scripts. I hate this. I need this. I don’t know how to ask for this, but it’s pooling in my mouth and dripping from my lips, thick fluid choking the words from me. Patient, quiet, dangerous.