An Erotic Fantasy
She was on top of me. Exultant. The look in her eyes was one of triumph. It turned her on. The power she had. My submission. Seeing that look in her eyes turned me on, excited me to overload. The energy and connection fed on itself, fed from two sources, and took on a life of its own.
I could feel the weight of her body on me. I could feel the strength in her legs as she used them to squeeze me. She was strong. Her strength seemed to amplify near me. And mine was gone. Flown away. Presented to her as an offering for her to hold and keep.
As with Sampson and Delilah, only in my submission, I had cut off my own hair and had no strength left. I was not there to resist. I was not there to guide or direct. I was there to respond, to follow, to accept her mastery. Submission is beauty.
At times, when we are together, I see her, really see her. I see into her; I see the parts that are not with me, that she is not showing me. Especially when she is not looking or thinking of me or of the present. In these moments her guard is down, there isn’t any. Those are the moments of her greatest beauty, her vulnerability, but also her majesty. She is with her own thoughts, perhaps concentrating on something, she is elsewhere. In those moments her beauty is magnified a thousandfold. She’s a tall mountain, an endless cliff face, an arctic blast, a meadow, a butterfly on a summer day. The stillness of the forest. The quiet weight of contemplation. She radiates tranquility. There is also something else. Something precious. Something which arouses in me a desire to protect, to guard, to watch over, and again, to submit. Her fragility.
She is elegant and exquisitely structured; her emotional landscape is ornate, complex, like three-dimensional lace, a trillion gossamer threads, silken, soft, made of clouds. She is feminine. Feminine in ways that I have never seen before or felt or experienced. Her beauty is emotional and unspoken, her femininity is but one of the faces of her infinite complexity. Her complexity reaches into me and coaxes all of me to reach out to her, to feel her, to touch her, to be with her, to experience her spirit like two clouds sliding through one another, feeling the variations of temperature, texture, weight, pressure, becoming one, and yet not, just enough to vibrate briefly together, like a billion electrons, a symphony of molecular orbits coming into synchronous harmony. All of me wanting to be with all of her, touching, feeling, fingertip to fingertip.
She is made of this femininity. Like a honeycomb of it. Fragile and delicate-seeming in its construction, but stronger than steel in its unity. This quality of hers has awakened the animal in me. For the first time in my life, or for as long as I can remember, I am awake sexually to a person, not just fantasy, not just ideas. For the first time in my life I am present. Yes, I can think of her. Indeed, she conjures herself in my mind, coming to me especially in the middle of the night. Striding through my dreams. Owning the corridors of my mind as she opens the doors to my arousal and leaves me whimpering, hungry, yearning. She is an owl at times, in the forested landscape of my sleeping mind, awake only to her presence, and I feel her fly through me as if I am a copse of trees. When I awake, aroused, I can feel the gentle breath of the air that has moved inside of me from her passing. She flies through me at will. She visits me in this way every night.
This is how she enters my mind, how she enters my body. And in the face of this majesty there is no resistance, nor ever the desire to resist. There is only the desire to feel, to melt into her, to be carried, to disappear. To feel, and only feel.
She had pinned my arms above my head. My lust was coursing through me. Every cell was oriented in her direction. I told her what it felt like once. That it was as if I was made of metal shavings on a sheet of paper, and she was a powerful magnet, and just as they do when you play in science class as a child, all those metal shavings line up, orient themselves to the magnetic energy. That is what was happening in my body, as she lay there. And I gave it words, and thereby conjured the feeling into existence, and made it concrete.
Sometimes she might slap my face or punch me. Sometimes scratch or bite. She loves me to feel, commands me to savour, to relish what is happening, to associate. When she feeds me, she asks me to taste, to take my time, to know and be thankful. When I am with her, she asks me to smell her, to take her in, to impregnate my mind with her scent. She is building a landscape of feeling inside of me. Constructing a vast city, a dreamscape, a place where a million people live, all of whom are me, chanting her name in hypnotic devotion. All of us are members of her harem, worshipping her, feeling her presence with growing intensity, using our collective intelligence to figure things out, to build, to busily go about an enriched emotional life with purpose and determination.
I could feel her body crushing me, and there was nothing in my arms that could push back. I had submitted to her, and with that submission went my strength. I like to wrestle with her, but in truth it could not be said to be wrestling. It is more like dancing. My resistance is there only to feel her lead, to feel the direction that she wishes to take us, physically, mentally, emotionally, spiritually.
Perhaps we all contain elements of male and female, with the relative balance varying deeply by the person. In my case, both male and female course strongly. My shell, my body, my ego and super ego are both male, but my id, my animal self, is female. Sometimes we all get along, others no.
My Mistress is female, she speaks to me in a language that my id understands and responds to–my sister, my mother, my friend, my spirit guide. It is my id that whimpers in her presence, whimpers and aches with desire, the need to belong. My id is just a baby for lack of exercise, for how infrequently in life she has been permitted to come out to play. She is a very grateful playmate. And yet, my inner me, through her lust to feel the power of our Mistress, forces my body to respond, to respond in utter helplessness, silencing the ego and superego, forcing them to bow their heads, to take the knee. This is where the strength has gone, because it is wrested from me, taken by my id, and laid at the feet of the Goddess like a bone, or a gift, obeisance, honour, respect, devotion, love, submission. And it cannot be any other way, and we know it. There is no other possible response to her majesty.
I looked at her eyes, into her eyes, her face was close to mine. She was glassy-eyed, her eyes like pools, swimming in their own triumph.
“Please spit in my mouth,” I whispered. She looked at me. Placid. Considering? Thinking. Impossible to read. Had I transgressed? “Please,” I begged. She pursed her lips. She brought her face closer to mine, her hands on my biceps. I lay still, like water so smooth it was glass, afraid to break its own surface tension, clinging to itself in electric cohesion. I couldn’t move, paralysed as I was with desire.
“Open your mouth,” she breathed, and I did. She opened hers, parting her lips, showing her teeth, and her spit dropped from her mouth to mine. And I savoured it, hot, sticky, tasting of her, so different than my own. “Taste it,” she commanded, grabbing my cheeks, holding them firm in her grasp.
“It’s like kissing,” I felt and put to word. “Thank you.” And she did it again and smiled. I was crippled by the moment, basted in my own ecstasy. I could feel her legs crushing me, scissoring my waist, the power coming into me from her own. Crushed and shuddering with pleasure. Her fingers dug into my arms, sharp, insistent, dominating my flesh. She slapped, pinched, and punched me, and I stared into her eyes, docile, watching, feeling, being.
Her influence on me was complete. For the first time in my life, I was physically present with another human. For the first time, when I felt her near me, I was constantly making love to her, through my gestures, through my thoughts, and my intention. Every sinew, breath, and ounce of passion was guided to Her. This woman had awakened in me an ability to be physically present with a woman. I want her to feel all of me, to feel my thoughts and emotions dancing all around her, shimmering with energy in her presence.
In all my life, when I had lain with a woman, I was there in my body, but my mind was somewhere else, on a landscape conjured by my imagination, a landscape filled with bizarre dreams and circumstances. Here, now, there was nowhere else I could go. Nowhere my mind wanted to go. Sensation. She holds me in the now. Not just my body, but my mind, my spirits, my emotions, every bit of feeling, every bit of intent, gets caught up in being with her, committed to her.
I don’t dare touch her without permission. But I couldn’t help but trace my fingernails, the flat, smooth backs of my fingernails, gently, delicately skating them across her arms. And then I stopped, because I hadn’t asked.
“That’s okay,” she said, “you can touch me.” And I revelled in that.
“Thank you,” I confessed, and in truth, it is an honour. I know it is an honour. To feel her weight on top of me. To feel her warmth. To be able to smell her, to breathe her in. I so wanted to kiss her, to kiss her not just with my lips, but with the soft skin of my forearms, of the inside of my biceps, the soft skin of my legs behind my knees, to feel even my hair curling towards her, the skin of my neck, all wanting to work in unison towards expressing our collective gratitude and devotion, to respond to her, to show her how the million me’s who had showed up to respect her, were all working together to honour her.
And it isn’t just when we are at play together, but also when we come together after weeks apart. In those first few seconds when we embrace, when she takes me in her arms, without fear or hesitation, taking away my nervousness, making a greeting feel like solid ground under my feet after weeks of floating at sea, desperate for land, hoping for a sighting, knowing that one will come, that the birds flying overhead are telling me that it won’t be long now, and then there she is. Terra firma. Safety. And I can feel everything falling way. The accumulated crust of daily life, the barnacles that grow from having to navigate the world in hiding. Here, for once, is a person who sees me, who knows me without artifice, with nothing in hiding, nothing at all. And knowing that she is here, beside me, before me, let’s me know, that just for a little while, everything will be all right. And it is that brief moment, when I feel thus, that my blood truly flows, courses through me, running strong like a powerful river, steady, thick, and unstoppable. And I am made strong.
It is as if I have been wandering through my life like a somnambulist, stumbling, lurching, groping through the darkness. But when she takes me into her arms, the lights come on. In that brief moment it is as if she’s taking the dust sheets off the furniture in the abandoned castle of my life, of my dreamscape, of my body, as if the party is not on when she is not there. She breathes life into me, filling my rooms with joy, bringing every cell of my body into conversation. And like at any great party, the chatter is giddy-making, scintillating and fun, with the memories lasting for days, for weeks, perhaps longer. This blanket of bliss accumulating in my mind and on my body like the drippings of candle wax.
And when the Goddess is not there, she is still in the air around me. Specks of dust caught up in the golden rays of sunshine as they pour through the windows of my soul, reflected, shimmering, sparkling, she is those specks of gold settling on my skin, covering me, reminding me that she is with me, all around me, in me, on me, being me.
Is that love I feel for her? No. It is something different. Something powerful. Something magical, wild, and uncontrollable. It is ecstasy. Oh Mistress, how I yearn for you! I shall erect vast cities in worship to you, a city of churches devoted to the Goddess, and inside each and every one you will find the people you have conjured inside me praying to you–as priests and priestesses, altar boys, and congregants. Spiritually kneeling to someone who so inspires.