It's not what he does to my body.
It's how he takes possession of my mind.
He plants these seeds. Images. Phrases. And they take root. They take root and dig down into my soul, sending shoots back up through the pores in my skin, shoots that grow into vines, vines that wind round my limbs and encircle my neck, tight as his chain.
He plants seeds. And the flowers that spring forth are dark and beautiful, midnight purples and blood reds. He plucks the flowers and smears my flesh with their pollen. I suck the remnants off his fingers, and live off it for weeks.
The bruises he leaves on my flesh eventually lighten and fade. They may be replaced by new ones, but these too will heal. The images, however, will never go away. They crowd the fertile garden plot of my mind, they trip over each other to blossom and grow. There is something slightly decadent about the lushness of the blooms, the thickness of the scent. But the decadence doesn't frighten me.
He says he is evil.
He pushes me.
He dangles fear.
But he isn't evil.
He glories in his darkness.
It is a beautiful darkness
and it intoxicates me.
Feed me, Sir.
Feed me the seeds of your midnight mind. Like Persephone, I will follow you down into the catacombs of your hell, where I will dance and thrive under the shafts of sunlight that you can't stop from sneaking through the thick stone walls.
(Posted with permission.)
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2 comments:
a beautiful piece of prose,
yes, but there are no shafts of
sunlight in S.'s hell, and
he doesn't desire any.
you are a beautiful writer,
honor yourself, by not taking
things too far, for when you
break he will leave -sated.
c.
Dear C. - thank you for the kind words, and for spending so much time reading me today. But you are wrong about there being no sunlight, and where my Svengali keeps me is not in fact a hell. I am blooming here, and I can not bloom without sunlight. I need it almost more than oxygen.
I wish I could fully explain the glory of my relationship with my demon muse. Suffice it to say that one way or another, everything I have written for him or about him is in truth a collaboration, even if I am the only one putting words to paper. He teachers me, he inspires me, he explains me to myself. All you see here are the bits and pieces I choose to show, but there is so much more.
He works me hard but treats me with respect, and my gratitude is boundless. What we are, what we do, just cannot be understood in the context of a standard D/s relationship. And it would not serve his needs to have me break.
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