The Sort Of Submissive

I’ll never win a Nobel Sub Prize. (What? That’s totally a thing.) I want to be the sort who’s as happy being a human footstool as she is kneeling, but that doesn’t make it so. Slave positions make me feel pretentious, and if I could remember things like that, I’d never go out on windy days without underwear.

I’m a sub, but no rules, no orders, no Gorean clutter makes me feel at home. I’ve seen people turn such things into acts of exquisite grace, but they drape off my body with all the awkwardness of a hessian sack.

I’m a sub, but obedience feels like intellectual nonsense to me. It asks me to submit from the part of my brain that learned accounting, and I flunked that course.

Twice.

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I still call myself a submissive, but I don’t fall at your feet out of deference for a silly label. I don’t respect the D on your profile or the floggers on your shelf. I’ve as few fucks to give to my own title, and yet I still use it. There’s a reason for that.

My first dominant told me he would never have chosen me if my submission had fallen out of me as easily as a coke from a vending machine. He said I was a challenge. That was sexy to him, but that only made him accept my sloppy discipline. It didn’t cure it.

Love did.

I hate rules and chastity and discipline and orders, but my devotion to you does not. My submission comes from the way your eyelids droop when you wake up and the way your hair gets all messy from the shower. It will try to remember the way you want me to dress and give up every enth of control. It will do as its told, even if you tell it to give that old course another go, and it’ll feel completely comfortable with all these subly things.

I’m not a sub until this magic moment when I fall for you. I’m a sub because that’s how I love. I will never give that role grace. It will always feel a little clumsy and inept, but that’s just who I am, and that’s exactly who you’ve chosen.

Somewhere between devotion and forever, our dynamic will emerge, passionate, maladroit, and entire.

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