Let’s talk submission: Some ruminations

Photo by Klaus Hausmann

It is a lazy afternoon and I have just spent the past half hour touching myself and not cumming. I am currently wet and on edge and raring to go, but I sit here, thighs trembling, loving the sweet ache, feeling the slow burn, thinking of cock.

Much has been said about being a submissive, and why people get into it, and how. This is not nearly a comprehensive take—I could talk about this all the time—but I wanted to reflect on some things while I wait for my body to step back from the edge.

What I like about being submissive

I find strength in submitting. I think you really have to know yourself—what you want and what you can offer—before you can fully commit to yielding your will to someone else. It is not small thing, that surrender. That trust. A Dom who can tame me—and see my gumption and respect it—is a Dom who will have my loyalty.

My submissiveness also allows me to explore and get to know my body—what I want and don’t want, what turns me on physically and mentally, how far I can go when it comes to pleasure, what are my limits and could I push them farther. Having a Dom to experience this journey with me is even better, because he will know what I need, and he will be there to catch me. Always.

How I show my Dom my affection

I live a largely interior life. I prefer my own solitude and the company of my imagination as opposed to being in large crowds, and I almost always turn down an opportunity to get to know someone new, mostly because it’s such a pain to have to open up myself to someone who will potentially reject me, or worse, I would find uninteresting. Heh.

It takes a while for me to warm up to a stranger, what with my barriers and all, but when I do—oh, you’re in for it. You have my full attention. When I’m interested I often ask questions upon questions, naturally curious and starved to know everything about you. Data, data, data, I tell my multiple selves—Who is this magnificent creature? What are his kinks? Does he read? Will he find our weirdness adorable? We need to learn what makes him human, stat. And so on.

My brain works on overtime, and during conversations, it is very likely I am almost a puppy—or a child? Okay, maybe a puppy—trying not to wag my tail constantly before you. I want to please you so bad I am likely to stumble upon my words. I want to bring dog bones at your feet: here is a poem I wrote, here is a drawing I made, here is a photo of the sunset that I took from my balcony.

I also try my best to do something special—learn to play a song on the uke, cook your favourite dish (though to be fair this is also part of the service), drop a recording of me playing with myself, make playlists, find an obscure shop that makes a resin statue of your childhood pet, and many other crazy things I will never do for anyone else.

But you know what’s the ultimate? Kneeling at your feet while you go about your day, your hand in my hair, petting me. Assuming the position, all ready for you when you walk in the door. Letting you tie me up until I can’t move, helpless and wanting it, my eyes looking up at you and telling you every emotion the universe can’t name without opening my mouth. Total trust and submission.

What makes my heart leap and leap

Doms can be notorious for the mastery of their composure. That absolute self-possession makes them so delicious. And when you use that voice—ugh. Let me say again: ugh. I am a puddle. Instantly. Whether you are actually talking to me or just texting me or writing to me—I know it. I would know that voice anywhere.

I love your desire of me, your possessiveness. That punctuated use of my and mine—yes please, a thousand times over. My burning need is to wholly belong to you, to be consumed by you, to feel and know that you crave me utterly there is no recourse.

Then there are the little things you don’t think I notice but I do, I do: asking about my day, talking until the wee hours, looking at collars and toys together, making sure I go to bed and get some proper rest, reading my letters and remembering details I mention in passing. When you tell me you want to kiss me, when you say you own my body, when you command me to love myself, when you think of my safety and level of comfort first before your own wants—know that if I could carve out my heart I would, and offer it to you bleeding on my open fist, see its every heartbeat, which is saying: yours, yours, yours.

And then your kisses. I would drop anything for a kiss. Your lips on my mouth. Sucking my tongue. My nipples. My clit. Forehead kisses and gentle kisses and deep kisses and sloppy kisses. I want it all.

And that tenderness mixed with wickedness? Calling me baby before saying you’re my cumslut, sliding your fingers inside my pussy saying you want my cum before stuffing my mouth with my wet panties, spanking me then providing aftercare—as the great poet Frank O’Hara once wrote: “I am the least difficult of men. All I want is boundless love.

When you tell me good girl, when you are saying I want the good and the bad, when you promise I am going to make you squirt—I want to offer you the world.

T. xx

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