Thinking about it

I have avoided writing about this, hiding it from the page as though it will hide it from knowledge.

Hide it from memory, hide it from admission.

Part of me is ashamed, I suppose, of the pleasure I take in those brief times of submission to you. That's not who I am, not who I'm supposed to be.... and yet it is, and it is a reality that to pretend away would somehow lessen, cheapen, and I will not to do that.

It was my trust in you, my willing submission to you, which prompted your choice to wear the collar, and I will not cheapen that by pretending it away.

I think about it, you know- about the brilliant psychopathy in your eyes, and your twisted grin. I know what you're imagining, know the pain you'd like to give me and the blood you'd like to spill from my skin. Yes, I know.

I think about it- about the sensation of your hand on my throat, just thisside of terrifying, the back of my mind fear that this time the collar will slip a little, this time no one will check you, and you will squeeze too hard, too long, grinning that maniacal grin while the blood drains from my brain and I slip into the darkness.

I think about it- the contrasting tenderness and cruelty of your hands, so like what I give to your other side, and yet so uniquely yours. About the way that they make me writhe, and whimper, and moan. About the way that the madness in your eyes makes me want to please you.

About the madness in your eyes that makes you want to break me.

I'd almost let you... if I thought I'd survive it.

Yes, I think about it.