It is in the idly wrapping of her hair around my fingers, a slow tightening at the base of her neck until my grip tugs her head back. Her cheeks flush crimson, the slight catch in her breath is lost under my words.
I build my domain on moments like these. I steel belief with silhouettes of my darker self. I conjure with a word, my will wrapped like cords around my knuckles, a winding of tension and a hardening of desire until it becomes a weapon wielded in touch, a touch of fingers finding the steady thrum of a pulse just under the surface of her skin.
—
Vulnerable.
It is an art, a conjuration of intent that can carry the delicate fragility of open desire from one moment to the next. It is an art because we all want the freedom to let go, to forget. If there is irony in the act of binding someone tightly with leather and softly spoken words that they may then be set free, it is lost against a much larger truth.
We all want this. Master or slave; the bound and the binding; the masochist and the sadist. Each loses themselves in the other. In the act of serving them, they serve their own needs, they find release in the act. We become vessels of sensation, conduits towards freedom.
Very well said. and very true.. how well you put the ideas into words ~as usual.
I want to experience this, and cannot do so in my life at the moment. But reading about it here helps me.
This is one of the most fascinating Musings you’ve written yet! This is beautiful: “I conjure with a word, my will wrapped like cords around my knuckles, a winding of tension and a hardening of desire until it becomes a weapon wielded in touch, a touch of fingers finding the steady thrum of a pulse just under the surface of her skin.”
Thank you for your continued writings…they always give me pause.