D/s is not a knot of rope or a shard of pain. It’s the push-pull feeling that simmers in my chest when you’re here. D/s not the bruise at the back of my throat or the marks on my thighs, but that they make me feel as though I’m carrying you with me into my day.
D/s isn’t the snap of your belt but the tears that follow. It’s not the push of your demands but the impossible draw of your love; not the aggression in your movements but the trust that makes it possible; not the chains or bindings, but how free they make me feel.
I see you. I see your secrets even in this sadistic moment because such rage only arrives when you’re vulnerable. D/s is not that awful cane you take out when you’re feeling fearless, but the way it strips the skin from my psyche until you see a part of me nobody ever has.
I’m no sensualist. I like aggression. I find my joy in the contrasts: the graze of your rope on my skin, the ache of your clamps, the butterfly trail of your fingers, the chaos of your violence.
I see you.
Here, at the still, small point in the core of this pain, I see a universe made entirely of you. I pluck the stars from the sky.
I warm them in my hands.
I give them to you.