Thousand Yard Stare
I rarely feel as powerless as when you undress. Each piece of clothing tumbles from your body with all the urgency of an avalanche, and I just watch. It’s less an impotence and more a stasis, me put on hold while you do your thing, get ready for me. I watch, and my mind formulates, but it’s a window of time that doesn’t involve me, except to be the recipient, the passive. To observe, watch, stare. Not to do.
As oxymoronic as it sounds, Dominance isn’t entirely about power. That would be boring, a petty dictator sitting on his throne and demanding this and that, obedience without respect, just orders followed out of a sense of duty, because that’s how things go and your head will be forfeit if you decide to transgress. No, Dominance is about controlling the flow of power, directing it, allowing it to breathe like a fine wine, flooding it out and then calling it back in. You’re a thaumatologist, standing in a storm and controlling the lightning in an impossible miracle.
Because this is a power exchange, and that’s a transaction that never stops taking place. You slip down your stockings and I can’t help but smile, can’t help but allow you that power over me. I’ll take it back, every last iota, within seconds, but for the moment I’m happy to allow it to rest in your hands, let you understand the weight of things before you surrender yourself to them. Because, after all, you can’t understand your sacrifice unless you know what you’re sacrificing.