What Every Dominant Woman needs to understand about what she does for her submissive man

This was written specifically for Mistress Delila, to explain to Her what our time together is like. I know it isn’t the same for all people, but I wanted to share it. I want Dominant Women to understand what it means for a man to be able to submit. I want them to have a glimpse of what they are, and why they are so beautiful, through my eyes.

I started to give a walk-through of our weekend, but I realized that wasn’t what I want to write. I want to write about the feelings relating to what we did. So I’m going to do something rare and not even worry about getting things in proper order…but it isn’t like anyone other than Mistress Delila and I would know that.

When She leaves the room, I like to get on my knees and wait for Her. It isn’t something She has ever told me to do. I do it because I respect Her and I want Her to know that I have already set aside everything to do Her bidding. It is where our relationship begins: with me releasing all control and accepting Her authority.

I like to arrange myself so that my knees are open wide enough for my body to fit between them, so my forehead can rest on the floor. I stretch my arms towards Her, palms up in supplication. I release my breath, putting as much tension into it as I can. I close my eyes and I wait.

This is not a particularly comfortable position. My knees are stressed and holding my weight in an unfamiliar way. The carpet digs into the skin of my knees, my forearms, and my forehead. At times, I think I cannot hold it for even one more second. Then time stretches forward, second by second by second. I persevere, and set aside my aches for Her.

Does the dried and cracked lake bed feel anything when the cool, fresh spring wells up from its parched midst? If so; then it must be this feeling. I have no word for it, because “submission” isn’t an emotion. It is peaceful. It is knowing my place. It is knowing what I offer is accepted, without question.

Usually, when She stands before me, She runs Her hands over my back. This is why cats purr and why dogs rush to the door in greeting. It is the physical sensation of being accepted. It is something I have never felt anywhere other than kneeling at Her feet with Her hands on my back. It is unique and precious, and I luxuriate in its richness.

Once this weekend, She did not reach down to me. I could sense Her presence, feel the pressure of Her gaze on my skin. I opened my eyes and could see Her feet before me, one of them slightly closer than the other. I paused for a moment and considered, then I gently wrapped my fingers around it and leaned towards it. I gathered all of the love in my heart and held it like a bubble on my lips, and then placed it on Her foot. When She did not withdraw it, I moved my lips over a bit and kissed it again, and again, and again.

I’ve never had a foot fetish. I have nothing against feet, but I have never found them to be sexy. I believe this is the first time I have kissed Her feet. It will not be the last, unless She forbids it.

As my lips caressed Her skin, my heart swelled with love. This is why flowers bloom, unable to hold back their blossom. My eyes blurred with tears of aching adoration. My lips moved to Her ankle, to Her shin and calf, to Her knee, to Her thigh. I sighed and whimpered as I nuzzled the joining of Her thighs. I inhaled the scent of Her sex and Her arousal. My skin around my body tightened in anticipation of Her desire.

At Her command, I stood and bent over the bed, arching my hips to give Her the access She demanded. She entered me slowly, reaching for my hips to grind us together. I gasped and whimpered. I sighed and I melted. The sensation of Her girl-cock moving inside of me pushed all thought from my mind. I was only a throbbing and whimpering pile of need. I felt sexy and dirty, filthy and lusty and wanton. I thrust back at Her, finding a rhythm that She set.

I turned to speak and she said, “Shut up. Put your head down and take My cock in your ass.” My knees buckled. Obediently, I buried my face in the sheets and let my body be subjugated to Her desires. I sobbed in pleasure, shouting my joyousness helplessness into the bed in total release. The slapping of Her hips against my ass seemed to say, “Mine! Mine! Mine! Mine!”

A cypress thrives where other trees drown because it allows its roots to be immersed and accepts the nourishment the water offers. This is how it felt to be taken by Mistress Delila. As a cypress could not exist outside of its watery home, I could not truly exist without the demanding claim of Her pounding inside of me.

When She was done with my ass, She allowed me to lie between Her thighs and worship Her hungry sex with my fingers and tongue. I drank Her juices. I bathed my face in Her desire. I filled my nose and lungs with the lusty fragrance of Her ownership.

She is not a deity; and I am not offering praise of Her supernatural powers. But She is my Goddess, because She nourishes and nurtures the deepest recesses of my soul. In accepting Her authority unquestioningly, I am created in the image of Her desires. This is not mere submission I offer Her, it is truly worship because it transcends love and strips away all that is not purely of that moment when we ceases to be two people and become something more. Again, I don’t have words for it. I don’t know that a word exists for that.

It’s like the morning sunrise – there are clouds, there is sky, there is the sun. But it isn’t until they come together that it is sunrise. So it is with us. I exist, but until I am with Her, I do not live.

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