We’re a hot mess of sex, power and personality, balanced on the kind of edge that&rsqu
We’re a hot mess of sex, power and personality, balanced on the kind of edge that’s more likely to cut that support. Split us in two, a clean dissection, and leave us with a broken moment where everything has fallen apart, and no amount of glue and honesty will ever get it back again. You surrender, we know that much. Tomes could be filled with my words alone, let alone all the others. Beautiful surrender, offered willingly, completely, trusting and alone, shivering with courage as it accepts the truth of submission. You hand yourself over to me and I accept, pull you to my chest and kiss the top of your head. You surrender. But I never can. I never will. The secret is that it’s tempting. It tugs at the very core of me, pulling me closer with every moment I don’t consciously fight it. I want to fuck you, with every fucking second that you’re there, surrendering, throwing yourself so fucking willingly at my fucking feet. I want to turn you into all the deliciously depraved things that my mind can come up with. Creativity run amok, a stampeding elephant that crushes everything in its path. That’s the problem, though. It would crush everything. I surrender to that temptation and it comes crumbling down, this house of cards that I’ve built. Curtains, walls, constructs, moments, each one just rubble at my feet. I’d give you what you want, what I want, at the cost of everything we desire. So no, I won’t surrender. Not even when you’re doing your best to make me. That’s how this works, and that’s how we don’t get cut by that balance. My refusal surrender is what makes your surrender so beautiful. Your surrender is what makes my refusal so important. Quid pro quo. Tit for tat. Only it’s more yin for yang, when you think about it. -- source link
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