vassal
by on April 30, 2019
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I recently witnessed a dance, the most powerful dance I have ever seen.  And yet it had no moves, at least almost none that even my raptured attention could discern.

 

It took place between Domme and slave, over the course of months, at the local club.  They noticed each other one night, their eyes meeting for only a fleeting second, a moment that marked the time after which he became the only one present never to meet her eyes.  Never.  Even when she stared intently at him from across the room, oblivious to the many buff slaves kneeling at her feet.

 

After that moment, their schedules synchronized.  Or rather, he synchronized his to hers, showing up for hours on end every night until he understood the times she would be present.  He studied, and studied, and conformed.  So that within a couple of weeks, she never arrived at the club and failed to seem him there, across the room, in his spot.  Eyes lowered, hands clasped behind his back, erect in posture.

 

For most Dommes, he faded into the wallpaper, invisible.  But she noticed.  I saw it when she played with others, pausing between the snaps of her whip to steal a glance at him, to wonder about him, to understand him in a way no else did.  And I saw his perfect stance break at times.  Rarely.  But at certain moments, his eyes fluttered upwards for just a second, to see her when she wasn’t looking, to allow the desperate need and devotion to flicker within his eyes.

 

How did they communicate so much to each other without words?  She began to torment him, passing close, so he could sense her more directly.  So he could catch a glimpse of her body with his downcast eyes, could inhale the aroma of her delicious perfume, could hear the intoxicating click of her heels on the floor.  And he obeyed the unspoken command.  That I could see, in the escalating intensity of his reactions to her subtle teasing, those movements that kept him awake at night in private longing and suffering.

 

And just the other night, I saw the next movement in that ever-so-complex dance, the one that made me question everything about myself.  She walked up to him, directly, and stood before him.  Despite his best efforts, he couldn’t help but tremble.  And she prolonged the moment of the introduction that began so long ago and yet took so long to accomplish.

 

She drew her sharpened nail along his chest, forcefully enough to leave a crimson trail.  She grabbed his short hair, tightly, enough to make him gasp so that all heads in the room turned.  She forced him to meet her eyes, lasers that bore through him, seeing him in a way no other had ever done.  And she whispered something into his ear, something private, something caused him to drop to his knees.  He kissed the toe of her shoe in grateful reverence, and she rewarded him by drawing her manicured claws along the length of his back, without mercy this time, marking him in a possessive way that made him bleed for her.

 

Many in the room looked on with confused wonder.  Who was this man they’d never noticed?  Why did this Woman choose him?  Why?  Why, they asked.

 

But I had a glimmer of understanding.  This man, this slave, he knew something.  He knew how to dance.