LadyNTrainer
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Joined: 5/20/2009
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I've been attempting to patch together some of my more inspired notes and journal entries over the past *mumble mumble* years in the scene to make some kind of coherent essay on the subject of what D/s means to me. The bottom line is that male submission is magnificently beautiful, and it moves me more deeply than anything else in this world can. Without it, my life would have far less beauty and meaning, and I would grieve for the loss of what to me is true love. Anything else can only be a pallid and distant imitation, a hollow mockery of the real intimacy of owning and belonging.
Here's a relevant bit. I've posted a few of the snippets here and elsewhere before, so some of it may look familiar. You may find it TL;DR, and that's fine. Let it go when it starts sounding boring to you, or like somebody else's mental masturbation. I write mostly for me and mine, and if anyone else can find anything relevant to themselves in it, that's all right as well. It is my personal tribute to the beauty and grace of the male submissive, and a celebration of the joy that male submission brings to my life.
The sacred paradox of dominance and submission is seldom very clearly understood, except by those for whom its passions already pound through their deepest blood tides. For me, it is the perfect storm of desire. Serotonin. Dopamine. Oxytocin. Opioid neuropeptides. Hypothalamic neurons discharging their chemical lightning into willing receptors. This is the chemistry of love, and it is also the chemistry of pain and religious ecstasy. Like hot molten metal in the alchemical crucible, it is the soul-stuff of transformation and transcendence.
Even beyond the intensity of the moment, these are the things I know to be true in the deepest core of me. Love to me is the awesome commitment of total physical trust, the gifts of body and soul given and received, desire fierce enough to leave its mark on willing flesh. Romance is the security of real bondage, knowing that you are valued enough to be literally held, and you value your partner enough to restrain him. In the absence of these things, there is no real intimacy. Yet I have had partners who did not feel or believe quite the same things, and the result was a deep and unhealing wound.
Intellectually, one can understand that some people are simply different in their languages of love. Emotionally, you feel abandoned, and lost, and very much alone. The blow to your self esteem can be a heavy one - what is wrong with you that your lover does not want you this way, does not trust you enough to give you the gift of himself? The answer is nothing, but you cannot believe. And the hurt goes on, at least until you are lucky enough to find a partner who speaks the same native tongue. Fortunately, I have also been so lucky.
I am in awe of the courage that it must take to submit with willingness and grace. It inspires me to strive for greatness within myself, so that I may remain completely worthy of such a gift. Simultaneously humbled and enobled by pain and passion, he becomes a rare and beautiful creature that defies any simple description.
Were there any such thing as a shop of ancient and magical curiosities that could only be found by the most perceptive and dedicated of seekers, invisible to casual passers-by, one that sold djinn bottles and dragons in gold and silver chains and black feathers from the wings of fallen angels, that would surely be the place where I once found him.
It is considered unwise for past customers to give any address to those who have not yet seen, or to speak more clearly of the mysteries that may lie in wait on those dusty shelves. Or of the proprietor, whose eyes are like twin coals of burned rubies in an impossibly beautiful face. And behind him, some say they have seen the whispering ghosts of faded wings.
But of course there is no such place, no shop of myth and magic that grants the deepest wishes of one's hidden heart. And once you have seen it, once you too have found your heart's desire there, this is what you also must say. And what you find there, you must keep.
There are oceans in his eyes, and sometimes I think I could drown in them. Their salinity is in equal parts of love and fear, adoration and intimidation. Impossible not to plunge into them, to explore the fascination of their depths, and to be caught in their dark undertow. There is no defense against utter surrender.
Formidable, the hold he has over me when he is naked and trembling and vulnerable. I cannot look away; my eyes are locked into place as securely as his collar. Powerless and surrendered, he is totally powerful, totally compelling. The grace and beauty of him at times is enough to break my heart, and to make it whole again.
He is John Barleycorn, consort and sacrifice. He is brutally degraded and taken for the most profane of uses, and thus a god worthy of worship and reverence. Crucified in leather, his flesh is violated and sanctified, celebrated and decorated by the bright blood roses of our passion. His body is the altar at which I worship. It is the sacred paradox, and it is the deepest truth and the greatest beauty that I can know in this life.
I am the respectful penitent and the savage goddess, and the scourge rises and falls to glorify as much as to humble. I am as deeply reverent as I am merciless to the sacrifice. Dea gratias, forever and ever, amen.
The sheer intensity of taking a consenting submissive and making him hurt and cry and suffer for me, the power and passion that is as hot and raw as the living hearts the Aztecs once tore from the chest of a willing sacrifice, that is what feeds me and fuels the flames of my desire. The naked vulnerability of him afterwards, when he trembles and cannot stand, and his eyes are so wide and dark and full that they look bruised. These are the things I am awed by and profoundly grateful for. And my eyes must be a mirror to his, I think, for this is the altar at which I worship.
It excites me, his willingness to be utterly naked and rawly vulnerable. It is for me, all for me. He is mine. He trembles on my chain and gasps for breath between hard slaps and caresses as gentle as a whisper, savage kisses and bites that leave him bruised and whimpering. I break his skin. Bright blood rubies, the most precious jewels of all, his unreserved gift to me. Who among us would not be moved?
He offers me the blank canvas of his skin and lets me paint it in cerulean and crimson. I could ask for no better present. The jewels I like best are the bright strings of tiny ruby beads that are born in the wake of my blade, etched into beautifully yielding flesh. There are no flowers as lovely as the delicate rose petals that bloom on his white sheets after a heavy caning. He bleeds for me. There is no greater love than this.
Sonnet for Slave
Held fast by steel, you know the soft caress
This paradox transcendent and rare
The hand that closes fiercely in your hair
Claiming past consent with strange and savage tenderness
Painting passion crimson on your breast
Yet says your name as softly as a prayer.
I mark your willing flesh to write the things I should not dare
And hope you hear what I shall there confess
In the leather's kiss, for how can I say
"I love you" any other way?
- Lady N.
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< Message edited by LadyNTrainer -- 2/20/2010 9:24:51 AM >
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The Awesomeness of Male Subs - 
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RE: The Awesomeness of Male Subs - 
now say the bit about the cooking and the backrubs again... 
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