The moment I kneel, I’m transported.
The shift is visceral. One moment, I’m thinking about setting alarms, cooking dinner, work, kids, the dog, you name it. The next, there is only my body bent before him, waiting.
I’ve learned over the years that there are times to be silly and my most babygirl self, and there are times when quiet submission is best. On my knees, at his feet, is a time for silent contemplation.
What will happen?
When will he begin?
Can I handle it?
Those are the first few thoughts. He leaves me to stew, knowing my mind paints a picture. It’s the easiest mindfuck he can do; it requires none of his energy. To me, time stands still, but it doesn’t take long. I will work myself into a place of quiet questioning before I slip into trusting supplication. We both know this. He only needs to wait a moment, and then…
Each touch is electric.
My senses are heightened.
My nerves tingle and jump.
Every kiss of air, every whisper of sound, every shift of his body, and I am on high alert.
Until then, I wait.
On my knees.
For him. For myself. For us.
Welcome to Wicked Wednesday! This week’s prompt was about kneeling. There is no one story, one moment, that encapsulates what kneeling means to us or looks like for us. He’s a creative, imaginative man, and I’m his willing victim. It’s always a little different, but always just what we need. No, the most important part, at least to me, are those moments before he begins, when I’m on my knees, waiting.