Musings in the Morning
Oh, how I believe this!
Not necessarily that man is superior to woman, though in my own relationship I am the inferior partner. But that in all relationships one leads and one follows. Even if only to the smallest degree. I truly feel that most marriages/relationships that don’t find a way to put this into use in at least some small way are the ones that most usually fail. In life, in all relationships, to some degree, one dominates and one submits.
For me there can be no other way.
I’ve tried it as equals and I’ve failed; never truly happy and balanced within myself even in the best moments.
I’ve tried it as the more dominant (though not in a lifestyle sense) partner and I’ve failed miserably; always running off with the first more dominant man who came along and always hurting the one I ran from.
So I must be the submissive partner. I must be the one with less power, the one who is subordinate and dependant upon another.
And, much like a child though I am rarely childlike, I need that power to manifest itself in punishment and praise, discipline and reward. It’s part of the power structure for me; to not only know he’s the one in control but to be shown. To have rules and boundaries and consequences for crossing those boundaries or breaking those rules. For one is not perfect, right? And as much as I may enjoy being the submissive partner, much as I NEED it, I also sometimes step out of my place. And I cannot feel balanced again until he puts me back. Punishment and discipline do that for me. They shove me, face first, back into the place I need to be. They allow me to “pay” for my infractions and be forgiven them. They show me he cares not only about me but about the power structure of our lives; they show me it’s not just a game but my reality.
But where does the fun stuff come in, right?
So, yes, I mix my D/s with S/m. Where is power more evident than when you’re bound and frightened, excited and at his mercy, unable to do anything but accept what he chooses to give? The crack of the whip whispers pure power, pure control and pure surrender each time I hear it.
All of these things combine, mesh, meld into the relationship of my choice. But more than choice, the relationship I must have. The relationship I need with all that I am to be all that I am.
The backs of his fingers trailing across my cheek.
The press of my collar, a constant presence against my neck.
A hand, tangled in my hair, arching my throat, forcing my eyes to meet his or my mouth to where he desires it.
A tug on my ear to let me know it’s time to go.
The twinkle in his eye when he pulls out the toy bag.
The glint of a knife seconds before it’s pressed to my throat… blade up or blade down?
The lump in my throat as he presses me to my knees.
The warmth and fullness in my heart as my knees hit the floor.
The tears running down my cheeks and plopping, plopping on a concrete floor as the agonizing bite of the whip tastes flesh.
His rough cheek brushing mine, the warmth of his breath as he whispers in my ear… princess or whore?
The cold metal of a leash trailing down my back.
The warmth of leather wrapped around my wrists.
The pounding, stinging, thudding impact of a flogger taking my breath away as it reddens my back.
My lips against his foot.
The site of his big, black boots striding across a room.
The hardening of his eyes when I’ve stepped across a line.
Getting up and getting his drink when I’m in the middle of a blog.
The times when he’s Daddy.
Struggling against my anger and disagreement when there is room only for obedience.
Checking his pockets before I wash his jeans because… I usually forget and when I remember it makes him so fucking pleased.
The knowledge that I have my place and he has his and the comfort that comes along with it.
The trust that blossoms larger and fuller with every day.
The crack of his hand across my cheek, shocking and thrilling me to the core.
The marks that last and linger, reminding me with each shower, each rub of my clothes, each touch of his finger, of the perfect surrender I recently experienced.
Never again making tuna casserole because he hates it.
Allowing him to help raise my son… and being pleased and amazed at how wonderful he is at it… even when I don’t always agree with him.
Lying shivering and sobbing, a crumpled heap on the floor, heart and soul filled to the brim with his power, my submission, and the screaming pain that wracks my beaten and broken body.
His voice… when he says… Mine.
I could go on and on, forever and a day.
D/s is wrapped up in all parts of my life…
It is the natural flow of all things.
It is what makes me whole, makes me balanced, makes me joyful.