I don’t struggle as you tie me. No matter how tight the bonds, how much they crease and pull at my skin. No matter what awkward, uncomfortable position I have been contorted into. No matter how much I want to pull away, to swing away from your belt or the crop. I don’t struggle. The ropes are an extension of the control I have extended to you since that moment I pressed two in the lift and glided up to submit to you in-spite of never having met you for longer than 4.5 minutes before in my life
You do not tie me down, you do not restrain me to the corners of a bed so I am exposed regardless of my desire to cover myself. Instead you place my hands above my head and if I forget for one moment to hold them there you return them to their place as many times as it takes for me to restrain myself for you. The effort required to hold myself there is what you want to see reflected in my eyes. To know that I will do that for you. So that your cock grows hard with the sight of the sweat beading on my forehead and my eyes watering with tears and the effects of the emotions running through me as I concentrate on you, what you desire, what you want from me and yet live into and offer up the pain, my struggle to manage it and my reactions to it.
And if you choose, as you have, to enter my unprepared ass, simply because the time is right for you and your desire to fuck me there over the arm of that sofa bed in a hotel room where later you would sleep on my shoulder emptied of care for those precious moments, is running wild in your veins and you must have me there and then, I will struggle. As your cock enters me and scalds my inner muscle on the way through and you hold my ankles tight as I try to pull you out, you utter one word ‘eye’ and I stop. I hold my legs apart and let you see the pain you are causing me, let you hear my cries and feel my sobs and I do it for you because you grow harder in those moments of my agony and I glory in my ability to give you that.
Struggling is not part of our dynamic apart from its connection to suffering and you love to see me suffer for you, for our us. You know that I suffer when we are apart, you know that I struggle with the distance, with the uncertainty, with the lack of time we can carve out together and you love to see me translate that into yet another part of my submission.
I struggle, you see it and know it and I see and know that and I give it to you and ask not to be relieved of it by certainty or platitudes or an early release. I want the struggle, I am addicted to the way that it allows me to test my strength knowing that it is never against you and always against myself. Against a small world bounded by fear and desire for comfort and safety. Against believing others’ ideas of morality and right and wrong. Against a smaller version of me, one in which eye did not exist in all her wonder, never got her wings or learnt to fly and return to perch on your arm.
The writing of this and about this also brings its own sweet struggle with longing. That delicious sense of tristesse that I seek to sublimate into how I live to the full for myself for you. I love to struggle. I love to submit it. I love you.