Rope

Rope

You teach me to tie the knots with painstaking patience in your eyes, your voice. Your hands are on top of mine on the rope, showing me how to smooth it, stretch it, train it to go the way you want it to go. I sit beside you on your couch and feel you watching me, feel the way your eyes are never leaving my face.
You tell me I will learn to care for your rope. I will be responsible for its care, to clean up after you use it, after you use it on me. You tell me that this is important to you, that this is intimate and between us. I am concentrating, hanging on to your every word, your very breath, focused only on my effort to do this task you have given me the way you would like me to. I can tell by the way you watch me that you are pleased.
I am dying. I am touched in ways I cannot even begin to explain to you. I cannot even look at you. I cannot, cannot bear the love I feel at this moment, the submission. I am too shy to speak of it, nearly too shy to speak at all, even the whispers you draw out of me, my face hiding in your neck, my voice trembling. I am utterly overwhelmed with feelings I have never felt before and feelings I cannot even describe, not even to myself in my heart, except maybe to tell you that I have never felt so purely submissive in my life, so purely wanting to surrender everything to someone and I adore that that someone is you and I have wanted that for so long and needed it - yes, it is a need - and I cannot believe I get to feel it with you and I have cried every single time I revisit those moments in my thoughts and I have sat up at night in my bed at home trying to write about it, to capture that feeling with words so I can express it to you but it feels impossible to grasp and make you see.

How to tell you of this? This desire to give you everything.

You are training me to please you, to love you, to serve you.

This is what I know of my heart: your whip lands across my bear flesh, my thighs, my back. An accurate slice, and I do not move.
It is for you that I do not move. I am bowed down on my knees at your power. I am overcome with the intensity of my desire to comply, to acquiesce, to belong to you in this moment as never before. I give over to you, all of me, as if you reached for my skin and imprinted yourself upon it. I love this: that it comes from you and I, I receive it. It comes from you and I get to take it, I am allowed to accept it. YOU allow me to accept it. I would stand there for hours if you asked it of me, each blow you deliver a gift I savor – no, devour wholly and willingly and with such joy that you have chosen me. That your gifts are bestowed upon my skin, that your marks are mine to wear and adore, is love as I have never known.

You tell me to serve you and I kneel before you and offer my mouth for your cock, a cock I worship. Sometimes I suck you off sweet and slow, savoring each stroke, each slip of my tongue along your shaft, each teasing lick of your head, playing at it, working my mouth and I hear you moaning and I know, I know you are coming apart with desire and I am pouring my love, my adoration, my need to please you into every movement, every lick, every suck, every moment of my mouth on you, my mouth adoring you, my opened lips an expression of such devotion and love.
To please you.
Sometimes you force my head down on you hard. “Get to sucking girl,” you growl and I am no longer aware if it is I devouring you whole, or if I am being devoured, your cock down my throat to its base, my lips straining, my mouth working your cock, pumping up and down the length of you, my eyes streaming, my spit gagging me, my jaws aching, my mind racing, a pounding of blood and prayer – please, please let me be pleasing him, let him be happy with me, let him cum, let him tell me I am a good girl, his girl, that I make him feel so good. And I am crying. Please.

To serve you. I live to serve you.

I want my every day, my every waking moment to be of service to you.

I worship you.

I fall in reverent hush at your feet every single time I see you. That is my reaction. That is my truth. That is why I have this heady consuming desire to comply. It is for both of us that I comply. And you never demand, you never assume. You ask. You ask and allow it to come from me. This is not obedience. This is love. It comes from love, my surrender. It comes from love, me on your couch, your rope heavy in my fingers, my little hands held in yours. The power to crush or caress, that is yours. I gaze up at you with a devout heart and the prayer that you will be able to read all of this on my face tonight and know beyond doubt, beyond the need for language that my submission is for you and you alone.

It always has been.