Ragdoll

I don’t, generally, engage in violent fucking of the ragdoll variety. I don’t, generally, toss you around, using the differential between my strength, size, physical power and yours to drive our sex.

While I may well leave marks on you, I will leave them intentionally, deliberately, gradually. I will leave handprints on your ass not with single blows but with an ascending torrent of them, starting gently, and growing in intensity and ferocity, until you feel the burn.

I will bite your thighs, your breasts, and leave marks, bruises, for sure. But I will bite you strategically. Deliberately. I will decide when and where and how my teeth sink into you.

I may well toss you here and there, flip you over roughly. But my violence, my roughness will emerge in short, urgent explosions. Not in a sustained, overwhelming flood of power.

I suspect my violence emerges in this way because I fear my capabilities, because, were I to show you the violence lurking inside me, it might destroy you. It might destroy me.

Control, restraint, these characterize the onslaught I will bring down on you.

I sometimes think imaginary restraints hotter than leather ones. Compliance arouses me more than submission. I enjoy granting rewards more than inflicting punishment.

I don’t delight in subduing you. I know I can do that. I delight, instead, in persuading you – convincing you, earning your trust. That’s the internal anxiety I use you to soothe – together, we create a scene that demonstrates conclusively, irrefutably, that I am safe. That we are safe. That I am trustworthy. Together, we prove that my fears – that my desire might so overwhelm as to destroy – can be tamed. Not by my power, but by yours.

Postscript: of course, if you would prefer, I will gladly go medieval on your pretty ass. But not until we’ve established, beyond all doubt, your safety with me. And mine, with you.

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