I have a tendency to curl my hands into fists when I’m anxious or upset. It’s never really a violent thing, it’s more of a tension and control thing. I regulate the tension in my hands. I feel the squeeze. It’s controlled chaos.
And submitting is like someone taking that fist and pulling it open. It’s a release. It’s a loss of control, but it comes with such an overwhelming freedom. It says, let me play with the tension, let me control your chaos.
Control isn’t always manifested in the most obvious ways. You can slap, sure. You can pull hair. They work just fine and they have their place.
But sometimes something a little less obvious is good. Because violence doesn’t always have to be so…violent. You can make me feel owned by shoving my face down into the bed, but you can do it by doing something kids on the playground do, too.
Kissing: The new slapping. Maybe.
Basically.
But that doesn’t mean I like handing control over to everyone. I am in no way chewing one of my followers out when I say that a comment made on a post I made about being sassy to someone who doesn’t own me got me thinking. Paraphrasing, the follower said that he was grateful that ballgags were around to put bratty subs like me in their place.
This was in reference to a person in my frat, who had told me that liked to dominate women, and who I decided to be a little mean to. Once again, I was not terribly offended by what the follower said, and I got the joke. But, it reminded me that I’m not submissive to everyone. And thank God.
There are people with terribly submissive personalities. I don’t think I’m one of these people. I consider myself driven. I believe that I am intelligent. So, no, when some guy makes a cheesy comment to me, I have a right to be sassy and not just melt into the kid’s arms at the first mention of interest. And I exercise it.
I’m not owned by everyone. I’m not submissive to everyone. That’s what makes the experience of someone being able to consensually tackle my strength and control me so powerful.
“She understood that her heart operated on its own instructions, that she had no control over it or, indeed, anything else.” – Jeffrey Eugenides, Middlesex.
They both know that little egg isn’t strong enough to get her off. But, he’s not going to fetch anything that could help. Especially with how precious she gets when she pouts.
At first glance, this photograph terrifies me. I audibly gasped when I first saw it.
I’m not sure entirely what bothers me so much about it. Maybe it’s the amount of devices/hardware being implemented. Maybe it’s the overwhelmed expression on her face. Maybe it’s the fact that the plug in her mouth reminds me of those stoppers in old bathtubs. Or maybe it’s that I am incredibly aroused by this image, despite how much it bothers me.
I think it boils down to the control that is clearly demonstrated in this picture. Whoever put her into this has full control over her orifices. How they’re used, who uses them, whether a particular one gets any release.
I try to imagine myself in her place and I cannot. It’s not that I can’t imagine being in that position, it’s just that I seem to lose thought and feeling. I would just become the holes. I would be someone else’s holes for their use until I completely and totally lost any sense of self, of thought, of feeling.
This was so not in the job description. But this is so the best part of the job.
(Disclaimer: Ivy does not condone workplace sexual harassment. Unless it’s the sexy kind. By any means.)