When Submission Feels Like Magic

When she loves, she feels sated, as though the entire world has opened its hands and given her all its magic. Every star falls into her, and she becomes a source of so much light. Her submission is only a consequence of these things: respect, lightness, satiety. She says “yes”, not out of deference or obedience, but because she needs to return every gift he lays at her feet.

His desires are her way home. If she collects them all, she can almost get close enough to feel his breath underneath her skin.

She doesn’t know how she became this way. For as long as she can remember, she’s found fulfilment in serving, but this thing inside her is not pure, only human. It’s built of flesh and cells and lust.

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He’s turned her into a risk taker. When you trust your rope, you can manage cliff faces that you couldn’t consider before, and when you trust your dominant, play that once seemed terrifying becomes possible. Possibility being the doorway to desire, all he needs to compel her is an obscene level of constancy. He will walk alongside her. She knows that. He won’t let her fall, and that’s all she needs to assuage her fear.

She has told him “no” often. He leaves the word to infuse in her because he doesn’t equate it to defiance. He knows that her best gifts come from the “noes” that she turns into “yesses”. It’s a process she experiences as supernatural, but it’s really only trust and lust simmered over a generous serving of respect.

She often wonders how he manages to control her like a marionette, but he knows. She is intrinsically submissive. She doesn’t need to be pushed. She only needs to be treasured. There is nothing complicated in this. He loves her, and she loves him.

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