Perception

Hands are an unappreciated beauty.

They can draw me to you, and they

can repel me, kill my interest dead.

I like rough hands. Strong. I love to

feel every moment of hard work

when you stroke your fingertips

over my skin, as you graze my nipples

and sent electricity through my

Body. I love the power I can

Surrender to when you fist my hair

and wrench my head back. When you

slide your hand around the delicate

column of my throat. Squeeze.

Hold. Let me quiver like prey caught

in a trap. I love the feel of your palm

gliding over my ass, a soft precursor

to the strikes that will leave my skin

a glorious shade of red. I love the thumb

you force into my mouth, to make

 absolutely sure you have my

complete attention. I love your hands.

All over my body. All over my soul.

Ennui. When passion,

eagerness and excitement lie

buried

beneath disappointment, dis-

satisfaction and despondency.

When you’re moving forward

on autopilot, reading messages,

posting pictures, and running

potentials through your little

checklist, but your eyes are

unseeing, your heart

unfeeling.

When you want to take a

break, come back fresh, but

that voice inside you whispers,

panicked, that you might miss

that illusive thing you’re seeking

if you take your eyes off the

prize, you finger off the pulse. But

truthfully, with your hope so

wounded and beaten, would you

even see it if it came

walking along?

Dominance verses domineering. Confidence

or arrogance. Master. Sir. Your Royal

McDomlipants. You hold the wheel, you

steer the boat. You set the course. Please,

though, remember. You prove yourself

to me as much as I prove myself to you.

Submission is a gift, you cannot take it.

You cannot demand it. It is mine to offer.

When you come to me with a vision

of who I will be - who I should be -

already in your head, you do not see me.

And I will be seen. Submissive does not

make me a shadow, a flower clinging to

the wall. When you think of only who

you will mold me into, you negate all that

is me. You are a wall, not a harbor, and

that give me no protectio.n from the storm