Stripped naked, collared, on my hands and knees, in the center of a large bed. The room is well-lit, cool, and silent.
She sits with her back against the headboard, knees drawn to chest, studying me.
“Head down, ass up.”
I comply, face resting on her feet. I remain like this for some time: Has it been ten minutes? Thirty? I neither know nor care. The world is as it should be.
I’ve written about how much I value vulnerability in a D/s relationship and one of the ways it can be achieved – by sharing as many thoughts, fantasies, and emotions as possible. But all of this internal exposure is merely a method of being primed and prepared for what follows. Because once I trust a dominant with my head, body, and heart, there will be moments which are profoundly sacred. And, surely, acts will occur, acts as base as they are profane.
Can I separate one from the other?
Is it necessary or even relevant to do so?
For such a binary dynamic, D/s contains so many liminal moments that, after some time, everything seems to shift to become a single pulsing point at the center of who we are together.
Stripped naked, collared, on my hands and knees for her. My forehead pressed to the sheet.
Standing beside the bed, she runs her hands over my body, inspecting me. Each time she murmurs approval, I know she’s smiling. And I’m proud to be her boy.
She climbs into bed to kneel beside me. One hand grasping the back of my neck, the other my ass. She tells me to lean against her, tugs lightly until I shift.
“Relax. I have you.”
The naked flesh of my hip resting against her jeans a reminder she’s fully clothed. In my mind’s eye, I can see us from above: her clothed and in control, me exposed in supplication. Simple, quiet moments like this make me happy.
I’m no longer thinking about the ache in my cock or the random thoughts that often intrude throughout our time together. I’m just lost in the feeling of being owned and loved. Secure in the knowledge I’m her boy, and she wouldn’t have it any other way.