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Vicarious
Submission
By Sensuous Sadie
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There are only a few men
I've ever really loved, and Garrett was one of them. He had long
silky hair, longer than mine, which cascaded over me when we made
love. Being only 19, I sometimes got defensive about having to explain
that long hair to my friends. Garrett said that he wasn't trying
to make a statement, he just liked it that way. Of course back then
hair was always a statement, but then there wasn't any rebellion
in him so I believed it. The power of our connection branded that
image into my consciousness, all the way through Moby, who would
arrive in my life fifteen years later. Moby had that vulnerable
something, a something which attracted both men and women and was
perhaps inflamed by his long red hair which reflected sunlight as
if he were an angel.
I suppose that Moby's unique style got branded into me as well,
because it was the red hair and gentle inclinations that drew me
to Alice. The first thing I saw was morning sunshine shimmering
off her wavy red locks. She too had that vulnerable something, the
something that makes you want to cradle her in your arms, gently,
carefully. Unlike me, Alice actually looks and acts like you might
suppose a "real" Submissive to look like. She is shy and unlikely
to take the stage as I do. Almost a little frightened really, like
a butterfly touched down on your hand, but which is there for the
grace of God, for a moment.
My good friend Leela, an avowed lesbian, just couldn't figure it.
Leela knows that I'm pretty much straight when it comes to affairs
of the heart (or loins). I responded by quoting Woody Allen who
said that bisexuality has the advantage because you get twice the
chance of a date on Saturday night. No, I can't say I'd know exactly
what to do with a girl, but I'm willing to find out. I have been
with a few women bye the bye, but it never really clicked; maybe
I'm just too phallo-centric. On the other hand, my relationships
with women are far more peaceful and stable than most I've had with
men. Maybe that phallo-centric thing translates into just plain
too much trouble.
In any case, I'm not one to cut someone out of the running just
because they have the wrong equipment. I soon found myself fantasizing
about Alice, not about holding her so gently actually, but about
torturing her. Her body, curvy and delicate, is stretched tight
with ropes. A blush rises from her belly to her neck, and her skin
heats as the pain passes through my hands into her. Her eyes are
dark and yearning, in that precarious place just between control
and weeping. Another moment and her tears run down to the sheets
as I hurt her, make her beg, make her cry.
Or maybe we will be at a party. She will sit naked between my legs,
my hands running along the undersides of her breasts, over her white
skin. I spread her legs apart, hold them wide, so that others, strangers
can put their fingers on her and in her. Sometimes I blindfold her
so that she doesn't know whose fingers are sliding into her pussy
or spreading apart her ass cheeks. Her trembling transfers to my
body, but she doesn't fight it. She gives all of herself to me,
open and helpless like a beautiful butterfly pinned to my mat.
In a funny way, it's really me who wants to be pinned to that mat,
helpless and fluttering. I who wish to have him open my legs and
make me a toy. I want to do for her what I want done to me. And
yet, while Submissives glom onto me left and right, Dominants are
far harder to come by. What is it to explore submission vicariously,
not through my own heightened senses but through those of another?
Why has the universe brought such a strange thing into my life?
Is it even fair to take her into those dark waters? Is this real,
or will I resent her later after I have finally coaxed her into
my sheets?
It's not just paranoid rambling on my part. When I finally convinced
my friend Diego, a sometime Switch, to keep up the quid pro quo
and dominate me, it turned out that he was more of a sometime Submissive
than a sometime Switch. Even as he pulled and twisted my nipples
sweetly, painfully; even as he talked to me in his low commanding
voice; even with all this he yearned to be in my place. Oh yes,
he wanted me to twist his nipples sweetly, painfully, talking in
my own commanding tones. Diego could go through the motions all
right, but his heart wasn't in it. It's the same when I'm dominant.
I enjoy the accoutrements of the relationship: the trophy sub on
my arm, charming conversation over a turkey dinner, the erotic massage
afterward. But deep down, I want to be that Submissive, feeling
just like Peter Pan when Tinkerbell holds his hand tightly and whispers
"Fly, Fly!"
While I wait for my own Tinkerbell to take me on my next magical
trip, will I spend my Friday evenings writing? Or will I be vicariously
submissive, leaning down to nibble Alice's slender neck and then
lower for a much deeper bite? Will it be enough to submit through
her, even as she struggles against the ropes, against me, and then
settles into my arms? Will it be enough even if my own heart isn't
in it? |
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