I am drawn again and again to this theme, the antithesis to my thesis. I am electrified by the idea that someone might control me (in bed, in life) through sheer force of a composure that I rarely feel; through their own restraint that I could only hope to mirror; even, dare I suggest...by means of punishment, soberly applied. I have no faith, however, in my own ability to regulate myself.
I have never yet been able to locate my own dispassion.
For truly I am not disciplined. Whatever I've accomplished has been by haphazard inspiration or sudden whim. My creative drive is scatterbrained, an emotional free-for-all, an anxious reckoning.
My fantasies often conjure the man who would rein me in even if by force. Who would govern, restrain, and control me where I was unable to do so myself. Of course, in real life, what good and suitable, respectful and kind partner would ever impose his own super-ego on a woman he cared for?
I know that, but still—
as I stare down an obstinate chapter of my book--
--Master, please help me find my discipline!
--only by my rules.
--yes, Master.
--there will be no 2 a.m. bowl of Rice Krispies.
--yes Master.
--the infernal crunching is distracting to us both.
--yes Master.
--you will sit here across from me, where I can watch you.
--yes.
--you will work until I am satisfied with the result.
--yes.
--or you shall taste the lash.
