If you’re ready to be pushed, he’ll know when. Open up for him, hot or cold. If you want to be pushed, ask him for more. Don’t leave anything hanging in the bend. If you stumble, he won’t stop.
So slither into your surrender, sweating, sobbing, and soul bared. Because if you’re going to crawl into bed with The Devil… He will push you.
I’m not in it for the submission.
I’m in for the surrender.
I want to take those steps deeper into ourselves until we’ve reached the point where You begin to growl and demand whatever it is that You need to take from me. At that point, it’s the surrender.
I want to know that this thing has dug in so deeply and taken such a hold that I have no second thoughts about right or wrong. The choice is gone, only the surrender.
I want no options to hide who I am or draw back or away.
When one is hungry for everything the other has and will accept nothing but everything they have… that is the surrender.
Submission just isn’t the same.
I would rather live my entire life wrapped around you, feeding you, loving you, embracing you and licking at your old scars until they fade …rather than to live one more day battling myself and what it is that’s inside me, longing to to be ripped from my soul.
I know you can go to battle for me and win, not only this battle to make me surrender, but every hint of war there has ever been inside me. I trust you to do that. I trust you.
It’s deeper than the surrender, the moments after which I speak of, that I believe makes you unique. You don’t stop with a surrender. I don’t want to stop after. I love the concern for and the desire to continue taking and giving after the tears and the pain and the horror of the sins we’ve committed have long been brought to light and the atonement we can only seek from each other has been granted without question, from that first wordless moment.
An angel, no, but I will be your Monster, if you will be mine.
“Every act of creation is first of all an act of destruction.”
— Pablo Picasso
Rip me open.
Destroy my walls.
Set my screams free.
Give me an open, safe cradle.
And a fist of iron.
The room was cold and dark. The air conditioning unit provided a loud hum for background noise. It made for my own type of sensory deprivation. My hands were always cuffed and occasionally, as I rolled over or squirmed, I hit myself in the head with the lock that latched them together. I would mentally curse. He didn’t wish for me to squirm against that which bound me, but my guess is, if I did, he wanted to make sure that I didn’t go anywhere.
When I rolled over or moved he would reach for my collared neck, my hair, or hip and roughly tug me back to him so that I never strayed far in the large bed. I was always tucked under him, curled around him, or hips positioned so that he could lay over me. Whatever he liked. I needed him to pull me back and put me where he wanted me because it’s never comfortable to sleep alone for too long.
At times when I’d get hot and the sheets felt too restricting, I’d kick at them. A swift, strong hand would still me. My body’s natural desire was for his touch and the need for it to overpower me. I wanted him to take me so badly.
His hand wrapped over my lips and my nose to cut off the air from my body. I struggled, then become still and tight against him. I surrendered. When I was close enough to him that his excitement could be felt, he would give me my air.
I do not remember sleeping. I remember drifting off, feeling completely safe, comfortable, and happy with my back arched and my throat exposed. I wanted him touching me. All the most sensitive parts of me, at his whim. Constantly and throughout the night. The more often his hands covered me, the more I yielded to him, and the less I fought.
I was always going to be his.
He wasn’t giving me a choice.