There is submission

There is submission, and there is bottoming.

To bottom is to accept heavy tight straps, manacles, ropes eating her alive, painful positions, numbing of hands and feet, of limbs and mind. She gives over her clothing, her skin, arms, legs, and neck, her young breasts to be bitten, pinched, yanked, slapped. She surrenders her scented pussy, her gleaming cunt to be fucked, thumbs hooked in her rippled flower of ass. Trying not to make a sound (and failing), she accepts beatings with belts, whippings, floggings until she is raw.

As a bottom, she is bent at the waist, her body laid along a beam, her nipple rings tied to the floor, her nipples stretched like they’re made of rubber. Her wrists, hungry for the ropes, are bound behind her back and ratcheted upward, straining her joints.

Pain beats in her body from lips to ass.

Her legs are forced wide, and a straight razor, sharper than any knife, is drawn along her sphincter, that tight carnal kiss of defiled flesh. And further, the razor tasting her warm wet opening, the dark portal of damp heat bringing to mind the scrabbling of bodies, arms, legs, sweat, semen. That craven receptacle awaiting the dangerous lick of the blade, a treacherous tongue, tasting her. Wanting more.

Farther still, to where her flesh mounds and folds, rose-like, smelling of piss and sex, where pleasure is akin to rows of teeth gnawing at desire, at want, at her appetite gone murderous. There. That’s where the razor leaves red trailings, the sullied dripping of blood.

Yes. That is bottoming. That is the place of beginning.

The submissive hears whisperings, hushed voices behind heavy doors, rattling chains, moans. Submission, the buried room, dark water, the flowing of cells through veins, abbreviated silence. The quaking of flushed round breasts groped and mashed by rough fingers and thumbs, unknown tormenters given free reign over her body and holes, choking her with cock and semen. Terror, blind want between the thighs, pelting rage and whips, fists, the drunken staccato of the soul.

How much will a submissive give? All? And what, in the moment that she is grasped by the ribs and cracked open at the chest, is her reward?

First, she is trained for the entertainment of others. Her nipples must be suctioned and hung with bells to remind her with each step, how she is nothing, ridiculous, inconsequential. She learns to walk in impossible shoes. Her head is harnessed and chained to a sliding track, forcing her to stay on her toes. She’s kept moving with a cane at the ass, like she’s a goat, a cow, made to walk with a knotted rope sliding between her wet thighs, each step rubbing her pussy raw.

She is a piece of handiwork. Art. The submissive is not a "me". Not "I".

Her skin is flayed along lines of incision. She is dismembered, cut apart piece by piece, her organs eaten, her heart devoured.

A submissive begs for more.

For her rite of passage her blood is siphoned into champagne glasses, the titration of her soul, dark rapture, bliss of defilement. She is painted with Beauty, Loyalty, and Destiny, and drenched in blood.

The submissive. A universe of nothing where she is no more.







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