Beautiful Descension Surrenderd Manifestation (BDSM)

We speak in the language of breath,
the short syllables between heartbeats ...
your palm an atlas, mapping the small of my spine,
your fingers bookmarking the places I forget exist.

You do not beg for entry; you command it,
and my yes is a fuse I light with my own mouth.
Leather sighs. Rope sings.
Our room is a cathedral of focused intent, lit by low moons of skin.

Grip: measured.
Gaze: deliberate.
Every inch of authority you offer is an invitation I answer with knees that remember how to bend.
The world outside thins to a single taut line ...
your voice pulling me along it like a tide.

I taste your decisions on my tongue ...
salt and smoke and a promise I can’t refuse.
My heartbeat is a drum under your thumbs,
and you play it raw and honest until the rhythm makes me ache.

There is ritual here:
calibration of pain and pleasure, consent folded like prayer,
the sacred countdown of limits named and honored.
You place my edges like candles on a map,
and I burn toward them willingly, flame curled toward flame.

When leather kisses my skin it is a punctuation  ...
a sentence that ends in a moan.
When rope embraces, it is an argument of geometry and trust,
binding me to the moment so I cannot wander to the old wounds.

You whisper my name like permission,
and the name returns to you as worship.
Tenderness braided into domination,
ferocity seasoned with care —
a paradox we memorize until it becomes easier than breath.

The intensity coils.
We tighten the tempo.
Air thins.
I count in the language of your ribs,
learn the grammar of being held and unmade.

There are seconds stretched long enough to make the stars jealous ...
each pause a charged wire humming between us.
You test me. I answer.
You take more, and I give more, until my boundaries are only the shape of your hands.

Then ...the fall.
A tidal snap where control flips and releases,
a thousand small combustions in the chest.
Sound breaks loose from me like birds cut free: raw, unashamed, indelible.
My body writes its surrender in light and heat 
an incandescent map that traces what we dared to do.

And the finish is not a private shame but a public altar:
we collide, implode, and then bloom 
breath returned like prayer, sweat like benediction.
A high so sharp it files down the old edges of me,
leaving something nearer to whole.

After ...the hush is holy.
Your hands move slow, reverent, reading the language of my skin,
softening the ropes into touch, the commands into murmured confessions.
You fold me back into myself with fingers that stitch quiet back into place.
We do not speak for a long time   speech would be clumsy here.
Instead we tend to each other like gardeners of some strange, fierce flower.

This is worship and warfare and remedy all at once:
the letting go that teaches me how to return,
the giving that proves I can hold.
You teach me the architecture of trust: built, demolished, rebuilt 
each iteration truer than the last.

So take me again, if you must 
command me, cherish me, break me gently and leave me mended.
I will come back to that altar, again and again,
because in your dominion I find my freedom,
and in my surrender I find my song.

~ "Papillion" 🦋

N'gamé 🌺