sub(m)urge

There are times when I can’t help it, my thoughts, my self.

It comes out of nowhere, crawls to the surface almost without me even encouraging it. It’s sneaky, underhand, rarely gives me warning and can be there dominating me before I realise. The urge to give, to offer to be used for the sexual gratification of others, and admittedly, also myself. It’s almost total surrender, loss of control, submission to whims, to be blown by the wind like a tiny spider is swept up into the atmosphere on a single strand of silk letting what will happen, happen.

I probably shouldn’t admit it so flagrantly, but I’m sure you won’t tell anyone. Let this be our secret, our tryst, my wants, needs, desires bared naked in the extreme to your eyes and touch and drives.

They say one can’t put the genie back in the box once it’s escaped; with me it truly did a long time ago. Not that I regret a single moment, a single breath, a single indulgence. That excitement of being possessed by your darkest thoughts, your hungriest urges, your noisiest needs that demand expression, demand feeding. They are needy, but then again aren’t we all in some way or another. That inviting sense of drowning, the cold shivers, the upwelling of heat, the inextinguishable fire.

Imagination can take you, me, almost anywhere, almost everywhere and leave you there vulnerable and exposed to almost anything. Always to places where you can truly feel all and everything if you, if I, let myself. I all-too often do, let myself: drawing me ever closer to the increasingly tactile against me, inside me, all over me, surrounding me, enveloping me.

It’s probably a weakness, or maybe it’s the opposite. I can’t be so sure even when I lie back and try to understand motive I find nothing my circles spinning in and spinning out again refusing to be defined or even refined in any way, shape or form. It doesn’t want me to know, it just wants me to do, to be and be done by and enjoy the taste of every second.

Drawn to sense of becoming lost, taken out of my comfort zones, behind the lines to be used beyond anything I’d imagined, or had imagined but hadn’t ever felt or known. Then to know it, drink from it, be pulled into the freedom it offers, although at a price. The price of my surrender, total and utter, to let go and let the rush of the river fills my ears, grasp and swallow my body whole.

Letting fantasy touch until it becomes real, and the shadows gel into skin, bone, eyes, hands, fingers, limbs, lips, sheets folding and unfolding, bindings impressing, knots and kisses; if wishes were horses then I would always ride bareback.

How far to go, to let it go, to let me go, to let them go: half way, all the way, beyond the threshold?

There is no danger in imagining, is there? When that imagining becomes tangible, what then? The intensity dissolves the glass between this window and me from within I look out, from without I look in until: I’m on the other side being watched, being envied, being used being pleasured and taken to places too far for even the imagination to imagine, then I become unlocked. I’ve become unlocked and yet there’s still more, even more, further to go, to feel and to let inside me: to let out.

But this is crazy thought. I want to sometimes shout, to scream… “do it, do it, do it!”

Can one be in control and out of control at the same time? If it’s my choice then I choose, then I am, at least a little. To feel guilty and free to be as I want, as my nature implores, to let happen what happens, let you do what you do, let you make me give and receive without knowing where or how far or how dark or how deep it will go.

© Emmaleela