Lines

While I have acknowledged that there are some key definitive differences between slavery and submission, for me they are so intertwined as to have become interchangeable forms of expression...

So often we circle back to the fact that if I'm drawing the line anywhere, we are not what we believe ourselves to be. Because that's just not how this works for us.
It's those things really...The things where I want to pull up short, draw the line in the sand, and exert my nonexistent veto power. Those are the things that define my slavery. Surrendering regardless of the doubt, the distaste, the overwhelming desire not to.

It is easy, is it not? To submit to that which one finds pleasing and appealing. That is not, however, what I believe slavery to be. Yes, there are times when I am more than willing, wanting, needing, desiring. The flow is...Easy. It is those edges I pull up short on though, those places I do not want to go, the experiences that make me cringe, those are the things which feed the junky in me. No choices to make, no options offered or allowed, being forced into that which I either abhor or want desperately to pretend is against what I desire...

Truly, to me, slavery is defined in that one small sentence--it is about one's willingness to accept things which one is absolutely unwilling to experience. The knowledge that I will be shattered into a million tiny pieces, carefully collected, and put back together again. Each piece treated like a fragile scrap of glass to be gathered with the utmost care...

Our arrangement is based on core agreements that I will not renege on, nor do I wish to revoke them.

Ultimately, I will accept anything he asks of me. He will draw my lines in the sand, define the places I will not go, the things I will not do, and make he determination of what is too much or not enough. Some people will think it's wrong, others that it is not actually possible.

The thing is, in the end, he has always been better than me at weighing my discomfort against actual harm.I have a thousand tiny scars accumulated in a very short span of time before he came into my life. When weighing my personal desires against their ability to damage me, well, I don't actually do that and I never really have. He does.

He tells me that everyone has a box full of darkness, and it's a privilege to be allowed to see inside. Our boxes of darkness belong to us, and no one is obligated to let another look inside. He explores mine carefully with unfettered access, stepping gently in the absence of light without offering judgement on the shadows. He opens his own and invites me to cast a glance inside. All that he asks is that I return the favor and not pass judgement on his demons.