I believe a famous sculptor once said that the greatest masterpieces were already present in the blocks of marble which he carved; he just had to chip away at them until the beauty emerged…
His shoulders remind me of Atlas, carrying not the world itself, but my world of fears and limits and hesitation. The muscles, broad and weight-bearing, do not flinch under the pressure of guiding me into ever greater submission. Instead, they are my solid plain, rock-steady and sure.
His arms are my safe haven after chances are taken and boundaries pushed. I retreat to the circle of trust as He pulls me ever closer to letting go of the will i thought was mine.
His hands are the bringers of both perfect pain and sadistic pleasure. A bare-handed slap. A wielded paddle. A dripping candle of wax.
His fingers are those of an artist- delicate and decisive all at once. They can pinch a nipple, circle a clit, or trace my cheek where tears of release have fallen.
His body creates mine anew and i become His masterpiece.
Rule Number 4. i worship my Master’s body.
