I spent all of last year trying to minimize and compartmentalize my submission. This year, all three weeks of it, has set about showing me the error of my ways with a vengeance.
I feel like I want to embrace it, or like I need it, or like I am missing something important. I guess its like not having been fed for too long: I forgot I was hungry, until suddenly I was ravenous.
Yet I don’t want to be told to sleep naked or what to wear or anything like that. I’m not that sort of submissive. I like spillover, not dedicated attempts to control my life, not high-protocol. I don’t know what I want, what I need.
In my head, there’s a conversation that goes round and round.
“You need someone to control you.”
“I don’t. My life isn’t a wreck, isn’t meaningless without submission. I am perfectly capable, more controlled than most people who self-identify as dominant. I’m just... missing something.”
I want it so badly. The thrill in my spine when they slip their fingers into your hair and just grip firmly, the promise of strength and pain, but not more. I miss that “don’t you dare” look that just cows you, that makes that rebellious streak a hair gentler, and I miss my own reactions. I miss whimpering, begging and not meaning it, laughing, and being made to really want it, really need whatever it is they want me to need. I miss the bites. I miss being held down, pushed down, told not to move and posed like a doll, kissed, disciplined.
I keep thinking about Xan trying to teach me how to drive stick, how he would put my hand on his lap and slap the back of it every time I stalled the car, and look disappointed when I messed up. I enjoyed that, the resignation and the patient correction. I enjoyed the arrogance too, the easy superiority he normally buries under layers of compassion and collaboration. And I keep thinking about when he drives, or packs extra clothes for me, or when he makes me tea, or asks if I’m eating enough, hydrating enough, makes sure I have my seat belt on or that I’m warm enough.
That’s the kind of spillover I want. “Don’t forget to eat breakfast” turned effortlessly from a suggestion into an imperative. I want to be punished for not packing a lunch, for driving too fast, for not taking care of myself, and I want to be rewarded for being good.
Xan isn’t that sort of person, though. And I’m difficult in that sense. He doesn’t want that kind of responsibility.
Of course, I promised not to bottom for other people, and I won’t. I like being his too much, and I don’t expect anybody can really give me what I’m looking for. I should talk about it with somebody soon, and maybe talking about it will be enough to put it to rest.
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