“I understood that in this small space of time we had mutually surrendered our loneliness and replaced it with trust.” ― Patti Smith, Just Kids.
surrender
Seeing images and reading stories of really full and complete submission surprisingly disturbs me. If I see things like shaved heads, permanent pieces of metal, horribly degrading tattoos, basically symbols of total surrender: I shut down. I can’t get into it at all.
I guess a big part of it is the fact that I have been that person without having undergone that sort of physical modification. Although it is not the case in the last year and a half, I have totally lost myself in relationships of this nature with people in the past. And while I have gotten smarter and stronger, there is a sort of residual dump that every so often some trash comes out of to bother me.
So I see those images and it rouses some feelings in me. It reminds me that I don’t want to live my life in a cage or give up my ambitions for some sort of 24/7 arrangement. And while it never got that far, there were boundaries that were definitely pushed both within and outside of the BDSM context. As this is something incredibly hard to express in a photograph and in erotica, I suppose it instead manifests itself for me in the more physical displays of complete surrender.
M’s Infernal Cabinet of Desire: One
LinkM’s Infernal Cabinet of Desire: One
For how rough the content of its source can get, there’s something so sweet and tender about the first line of this piece. Maybe to non-kinky people it isn’t at all. I guess I’m just weird.
One day, the girl decided that she didn’t want to be free anymore.
She went to him, and asked for his collar.
“Are you certain?” he asked. “Once you are collared, that’s it. You’re mine. Utterly. Mine to fuck, to caress, to torment; mine to lend out, to give away; mine to mark in any way I like….
It’s his. And you can’t see it.
It doesn’t matter that she wishes you could. Or that she’s hoping he’ll spread his middle and ring fingers, opening her lips to you as an invitation. Or that she’s been looking at you with that same coy smile all day, letting thoughts of you taking that which he has hidden from you tumble around her mind.
You wonder if she’s wet under that hand. Part of you already knows the answer to that. You wonder what she tastes like. That you don’t know the answer to. He won’t grant you the privilege of that knowledge.
She’s surrendered herself to him this way out of her own free will. He chooses who sees her, who touches her, who tastes her, who fucks her. And he chooses who she gets to see, touch, taste and fuck. Judging by the hand going over her eyes, he can tell what you’re doing with her mind. And you can tell that you’ve clearly overstayed your welcome in there.