By Lady N.

I am in awe of the courage that it must take to submit with willingness and grace.  It inspires me to strive for greatness within myself, so that I may remain completely worthy of such a gift.  Simultaneously humbled and enobled by pain and passion, he becomes a rare and beautiful creature that defies any simple description.

Were there any such thing as a shop of ancient and magical curiosities that could only be found by the most perceptive and dedicated of seekers, invisible to casual passers-by, one that sold djinn bottles and dragons in gold and silver chains and black feathers from the wings of fallen angels, that would surely be the place where I once found him.
 
It is considered unwise for past customers to give any address to those who have not yet seen, or to speak more clearly of the mysteries that may lie in wait on those dusty shelves. Or of the proprietor, whose eyes are like twin coals of burned rubies in an impossibly beautiful face. And behind him, some say they have seen the whispering ghosts of faded wings.

But of course there is no such place, no shop of myth and magic that grants the deepest wishes of one's hidden heart. And once you have seen it, once you too have found your heart's desire there, this is what you also must say.  And what you find there, you must keep.

There are oceans in his eyes, and sometimes I think I could drown in them. Their salinity is in equal parts of love and fear, adoration and intimidation. Impossible not to plunge into them, to explore the fascination of their depths, and to be caught in their dark undertow. There is no defense against utter surrender.

Formidable, the hold he has over me when he is naked and trembling and vulnerable. I cannot look away; my eyes are locked into place as securely as his collar. Powerless and surrendered, he is totally powerful, totally compelling. The grace and beauty of him at times is enough to break my heart, and to make it whole again.

He is John Barleycorn, consort and sacrifice. He is brutally degraded and taken for the most profane of uses, and thus a god worthy of worship and reverence. Crucified in leather, his flesh is violated and sanctified, celebrated and decorated by the bright blood roses of our passion. His body is the altar at which I worship. It is the sacred paradox, and it is the deepest truth and the greatest beauty that I can know in this life.

I am the respectful penitent and the savage goddess, and the scourge rises and falls to glorify as much as to humble. I am as deeply reverent as I am merciless to the sacrifice. Dea gratias, forever and ever, amen.

The sheer intensity of taking a consenting submissive and making him hurt and cry and suffer for me, the power and passion that is as hot and raw as the living hearts the Aztecs once tore from the chest of a willing sacrifice, that is what feeds me and fuels the flames of my desire. The naked vulnerability of him afterwards, when he trembles and cannot stand, and his eyes are so wide and dark and full that they look bruised. These are the things I am awed by and profoundly grateful for. And my eyes must be a mirror to his, I think, for this is the altar at which I worship.

It excites me, his willingness to be utterly naked and rawly vulnerable. It is for me, all for me. He is mine. He trembles on my chain and gasps for breath between hard slaps and caresses as gentle as a whisper, savage kisses and bites that leave him bruised and whimpering. I break his skin. Bright blood rubies, the most precious jewels of all, his unreserved gift to me. Who among us would not be moved?
He offers me the blank canvas of his skin and lets me paint it in cerulean and crimson. I could ask for no better present.  The jewels I like best are the bright strings of tiny ruby beads that are born in the wake of my blade, etched into beautifully yielding flesh. There are no flowers as lovely as the delicate rose petals that bloom on his white sheets after a heavy caning. He bleeds for me.  There is no greater love than this.