It was a dark and stormy night...
I am in the process of deflowering an adult male. The virginity I am taking has less to do with the mechanical aspect of sexual virginity as much as the psychological one. He is experiencing submission for the first time and this is our second scene together.
The details are boring enough for those of you who have years of experience. Blindfold, wrists bound, mouth gagged and legs tied apart. Balls tied neatly into two tight, bouncing orbs. Various tools of sensual torture and sensational arousal used to accomplish my evil plan which consists of getting one young man to discover addiction in the form of sexual submission to me. So far, we are coming along nicely. He is confident and comfortable enough in his sexuality and his masculinity that he has no need to suddenly switch on his "macho man" behaviors when he gets too close to surrender. He delights in it like a child with a game seeing how he will surprise himself by how far he can go.
I disciplined him for bad behavior during the last session and left him in this helpless state. His wife had been there watching the entire scene, making mental notes and relishing the opportunity to reap the rewards of his frustrated arousal. (They have a lovely, playful marriage that allows them to have these experiences with each other. I am always impressed by the emotional security of committed couples.) I abandoned him to his wife knowing full well I had no intention of rewarding his previous bad behavior with too much of my attention. I also knew that it never occurred to him that his previous transgression would have any weight on the current interaction. After all, if it was insignificant enough for him to barely remember it, why would I deem it memorable enough for punishment?
How quickly we forget how bad habits start.
She called me later and gave me a quick report before bed. He was shaking. Dazed. Blown out. Breathing coming in hard, short bursts. He had gone into his zone. Sub-space. Deep space. Head space. That space between here and nothingness where dreaming and being are all happening simultaneously and we are attached to our bodies by nothing more than silvery tethers of sensation. He had lost the last bits of control in a single moment and had won the right to taste the divine nectar of real surrender.
And now the real addiction to me begins.
I don't have any desire to take him from his wife. I have limited use for him. I enjoy opening him though. I enjoy his surrender to me. She can have the rest of him. I only want the part of him that seeks ablution of his unutterable and intolerable filthiness and perversion. She can have his love and devotion. I want to engraft his need with intolerably acute desires. It is a sweet surrender that is given when it is given wholly. And herein lies my addiction.
I want it all. Every last drop of it. Give me even the slightest taste of your authentic surrender and I will split the heavens open searching for the rest of it. I will have it and you will give it to me. There is no other way.
And so it goes.
I sit here in silence enjoying a hot cup of coffee and a cool breeze in the evening sunset while I relay these things to you. This moment of solitude with hot, satisfying refreshment and cool, moving air is true beauty captured in a moment. I am at peace in ways that only animals can understand when they lie in cool grass in warm sunshine. I used to worry about corrupting the comfortably innocent by opening up their eyes to such secret rooms in their psyche. I did not understand what it meant when they say that most men lead lives of quiet desperation. I understand it now and I know that the silent suffering they do has little to do with me or anyone else that awakens them to their own truth so vividly. Their internal agony has more to do with not knowing what stops them from finding their bliss. Opening their eyes to what is possible for them to experience is both a curse and a blessing. It is not my responsibility to decide for them which it should be. I am only the messenger.
In the end, I am reduced to an opening sentence in a much larger chapter of their lives. I can only hope that I remain a strong and memorable opening and not a worn out cliche that could stand on its own merit as a common mistake.
Who knows. Perhaps that isn't such a bad thing. Even a dark and stormy night can have its merits in the right context.
The details are boring enough for those of you who have years of experience. Blindfold, wrists bound, mouth gagged and legs tied apart. Balls tied neatly into two tight, bouncing orbs. Various tools of sensual torture and sensational arousal used to accomplish my evil plan which consists of getting one young man to discover addiction in the form of sexual submission to me. So far, we are coming along nicely. He is confident and comfortable enough in his sexuality and his masculinity that he has no need to suddenly switch on his "macho man" behaviors when he gets too close to surrender. He delights in it like a child with a game seeing how he will surprise himself by how far he can go.
I disciplined him for bad behavior during the last session and left him in this helpless state. His wife had been there watching the entire scene, making mental notes and relishing the opportunity to reap the rewards of his frustrated arousal. (They have a lovely, playful marriage that allows them to have these experiences with each other. I am always impressed by the emotional security of committed couples.) I abandoned him to his wife knowing full well I had no intention of rewarding his previous bad behavior with too much of my attention. I also knew that it never occurred to him that his previous transgression would have any weight on the current interaction. After all, if it was insignificant enough for him to barely remember it, why would I deem it memorable enough for punishment?
How quickly we forget how bad habits start.
She called me later and gave me a quick report before bed. He was shaking. Dazed. Blown out. Breathing coming in hard, short bursts. He had gone into his zone. Sub-space. Deep space. Head space. That space between here and nothingness where dreaming and being are all happening simultaneously and we are attached to our bodies by nothing more than silvery tethers of sensation. He had lost the last bits of control in a single moment and had won the right to taste the divine nectar of real surrender.
And now the real addiction to me begins.
I don't have any desire to take him from his wife. I have limited use for him. I enjoy opening him though. I enjoy his surrender to me. She can have the rest of him. I only want the part of him that seeks ablution of his unutterable and intolerable filthiness and perversion. She can have his love and devotion. I want to engraft his need with intolerably acute desires. It is a sweet surrender that is given when it is given wholly. And herein lies my addiction.
I want it all. Every last drop of it. Give me even the slightest taste of your authentic surrender and I will split the heavens open searching for the rest of it. I will have it and you will give it to me. There is no other way.
And so it goes.
I sit here in silence enjoying a hot cup of coffee and a cool breeze in the evening sunset while I relay these things to you. This moment of solitude with hot, satisfying refreshment and cool, moving air is true beauty captured in a moment. I am at peace in ways that only animals can understand when they lie in cool grass in warm sunshine. I used to worry about corrupting the comfortably innocent by opening up their eyes to such secret rooms in their psyche. I did not understand what it meant when they say that most men lead lives of quiet desperation. I understand it now and I know that the silent suffering they do has little to do with me or anyone else that awakens them to their own truth so vividly. Their internal agony has more to do with not knowing what stops them from finding their bliss. Opening their eyes to what is possible for them to experience is both a curse and a blessing. It is not my responsibility to decide for them which it should be. I am only the messenger.
In the end, I am reduced to an opening sentence in a much larger chapter of their lives. I can only hope that I remain a strong and memorable opening and not a worn out cliche that could stand on its own merit as a common mistake.
Who knows. Perhaps that isn't such a bad thing. Even a dark and stormy night can have its merits in the right context.
posted by Samois at 7:53 PM
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