To hear the strength in your voice. To know that calm. To stand silently in the corner and wait for you, for a short while. To feel your eyes watching me from across the room.
To be told to strip, and lie face down in the bed. To feel your hand upon my bottom. To feel the sting of fingers, or a cane, or a paddle, or a flogger.
That first sharp intake of air, and that first groan of welcome, of acknowledgement, pain is mine. The second blow, and the third, the unexpected rhythm, the surrender, the knowing that I do not need to know when the next strike will come, or where it will land, only that it will.
To be pushed, closer and closer to tears, to that breaking edge, to the emotions I've been hiding away because they were too messy to let spill out. To feel them rise in the back of my throat, and leap with every moan, every pain filled cry.
To hear your voice, steady, patient.
To arch my back and kick my feet, and scream my protests into the pillow without fear that you will stop before I'm there.
To scream until I am exhausted from holding back, and then feel the tears spilling down my cheeks, the sobs tearing from my chest. To tremble and shudder and weep.
To be gathered in your arms, and to blubber, sob, messily, uncontrollably, wrapped in your control. To spend my emotion in your embrace.
Safe.
Loved.
Known.
Understood.
Then, to love you in return, to sate your hunger and meet your need.
But today is not that day.
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