I do that a lot.
I watch him. I watch him interact and communicate. I watch him rise and fall. I watch him struggle. I watch him master those around him. I see relationships blossom and occasionally wilt. I am fascinated. My emotions run an excruciating gauntlet as I watch: protectiveness, joy, pride, sadness, irritation, ugly jealousy. And the ever decreasing circle begins again.
Underneath it all is the most intense longing I have ever known. This longing is ever present and only recedes when he is near me; close enough to touch. He is not mine, but I am his. He gives me what I need to stay whole. The times I have spent with him are a blur of sensations. His fingers leave ribbons of fire on my skin. His kiss liquefies my bones.
On my knees at his feet, is the eye of my hurricane; where the myriad worries that infest my mind are forgotten and I am at peace. The void beckons. Chaos in its truest sense – a chasm of incoherence and loss of self; within which, I am completely free.
Control, usually so fastidiously clung to in everyday life, is surrendered. It is my gift and my reward. This is who I am, and he alone, knows me in intimate detail. This is the chink in my carefully crafted armour. Those who know me would think it absurd: that I would give myself so utterly; submit, if you will. They would never understand how the craving burns; that pleasing him is my drug of choice.
He can be so tender and loving, yet so brutal and savage; a combination of the most luxurious velvet and the most lethal steel. He hurts me; bruises me; humiliates me, and liquid warmth floods my cunt. He elicits responses from my body that are beyond my control or comprehension. I am addicted. I long for him to make me bleed again.
Society dictates that I should be repelled by my own feelings, that I must be weak or mentally unstable to want such things. Society can go fuck itself. In those all too fleeting moments; lust and pain, love and longing, pleasure and freedom, all combine to reveal what I believe is my universal truth: I don’t care.
I’m not inferior to him; that is not the bedrock of my submission. He receives my gift and returns it to me in a way that makes my mind, body, soul and heart sing. He interests and intrigues me; he captivates me. In our snatched slices of time, I am greedy for every facet of him. When distance intervenes, the occasional doubt creeps in; I never question my own feelings, but my ridiculous sense of humility, overactive imagination and unsatisfied inquisitiveness slowly deflate my bubble of joy.
I’m only human. I forgive myself this, and hope he can too.
I never assume; that way lies constant disappointment. I merely hope that we meet again before my bubble bursts.
Until then, I’ll be watching.