
Watching.
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.
“On my knees at his feet, is the eye of my hurricane…” is an incredibly powerful line. I adore the image and feeling it invokes.
“This is who I am, and he alone, knows me in intimate detail” – oh how I relate to that line!
Beautifully written piece.
~Mia~ xx