Month: April 2008

In a recent correspondence with a submissive friend, I was asked an interesting question:

The question:

Could a man, who says he is an experienced Dom and looking for a submissive to train and serve, be truly comfortable with himself if he also needs the relationship to be discreet, sexually friendly, and without responsibility.

My answer:

There does appear to be a contradiction inherent in what he may be seeking. I can understand a friendly, sexual, exploration of D/s. And I believe we are all capable of defining the boundaries of the relationships we build between people.

However.

Friendly exploration and finding a submissive to /train/ and /serve/ are not particularly compatible. Those terms cannot be spoken of without there being responsibility – it is inherent in the very nature of such concepts. You do not train someone without then being at least partially responsible for what happens next. We're not speaking of a playful scene amongst friends. We're speaking of an agreement between two thinking, feeling, entities, where ones taking on the responsibility to shape the other in a direct and possibly lasting fashion.

Of course, as I spoke of earlier, I dislike letting anyone dictate what is and is not possible. If such an arrangement appeals to you, there may be a way to create an enjoyable partnership with the Dom – but in truth, it sounds to me as if he is someone who wants to play at being at Dom without assuming the full mantle of responsibility that comes with it (perhaps due to an aversion to commitment, perhaps due to his relationship status that requires he be discreet).

—

Thoughts?

It rains, and I think of you.

Water, racing across the window, sculpts the shadows that fall across my desk; my fingers trace the changing landscape, following the dark lines, and I remember.

I remember the way the rain tasted on your skin. I remember how it trickled down your stomach, your breasts providing a cool alcove while I knelt, cheek pressed to your bare skin. I turned my head upwards to catch the drops of rain as they slid over your curves and onto my waiting lips.

I drank you in.

In my study, I can hear the rain, tapping at the glass of the window, and when I open it, just a crack, I can hear the soft roar of the creek outside as it comes to life. Normally a quiet, lazy, memory of a stream, the torrential downpour has awoken it.

I listen, and I remember.

I remember hearing your heartbeat as I stood, my head resting on your chest, and it sounded like the roaring creek outside, as if we were rushing towards concupiscence and that if we didn't let go, the moment would crash through us, leaving us tangled, the space between us lost.

But we didn't let go. We clung together, eager to drown in each other's heat, our desire turning to ferocious need, our legs and arms clasped tightly; you were no longer simply rain-wet, you were fever-drenched, and I felt you tremble and quake against me.

Eventually the rain passed. And, after I had kissed the rain from your lips, after your fingers had brushed my wet hair back away from my face so that you could see my eyes again, we let go, reluctantly, unsure, just a bit awkward, as we attempted to find our footing alone.

I remember.

But you are not here, now, and I have only the memory of rain, the shadow of rain, to remind me. 

I want to deify her.

I want to make her an icon of all that is worst in my needs. I want to worship her from between her thighs, an act of serenity and sorrow. I want to drink her in and bathe in the heat of her rapture.

And I want to watch her fall.

Because fallen goddesses are the most beautiful of creatures, with their brutally shorn innocence, their sweet regrets, and their silent tears.

When you can’t see the bottom, I make you believe you are walking on a bridge of glass.

But the truth is you are walking on faith alone.

It's funny how a darkened room filled with strangers can so quickly become the faded backdrop to a moment of such complete intimacy.

I counted the number of breaths it took between the meeting of our eyes and the first meager sampling of flesh. You pressed close, silver-fox eyes never leaving mine despite the inequities in height.

And then I watched the bright crimson of your lips part in surprise at the cool touch of something sharp and dangerous at the small of your back.

Your first mistake was coming so close. Your second was in trying to back away.

Four.

Four was the number of breaths it took to close the distance between us.

Three.

Three breaths for you to realize you were trapped between the point of a knife and my knowing smile.

Two.

The time it took for you to inch closer, motivated by the prickling tip of my knife. Your body settled nicely against me.

One.

One was all I gave you before I stole the rest away.