The Gaze

I would never deny you eye contact. I know such denial is a method that the 'Alpha' deploys in order to stamp so-called authority, but not allowing a subject to make eye contact is in my view ineffective and creates only a shadow of what real dominance could be. For dominance to be truly tangible, and meaningful, it is necessary to 'read' every nuance of emotional change. I want to see the sparks of defiance and the twinges of pain, the welling of tears and the coquettish mischief: I want to see everything, because those 'windows of the soul' are windows on the effect one is having. The eyes are the barometers of experience, and I want to see it all. In fact, In a pointed inversion of the norm, I would INSIST that you look me in the eyes, to the point that to do so is the very last thing that you would want to do, because to do so would be to reveal too much.

Eye contact deniers are fools. They are so wide of their mark. Their strategy is to deny being, but true dominance demands the acknowledgement of being. Perhaps intimacy is anathema to the orthodox dominant. Such intimacy is a potent thing, and it represents a challenge, which they are loath to admit because it punctures their illusions of control. One crucial aspect of this acknowledgement of being is that it entails disclosure on the part of one, or both parties. One thing is very apparent: disclosure is a commodity that you are loath to give. Hence my silent insistence, as I take your chin firmly and steer your face by that shapely jaw back into direct engagement with my own. Our eyes lock again. And sensing your instinctual resistance, my gaze deepens, our irises fall into synch.

The eyes, dear God the eyes. So very powerful, so revealing, so evocative, so crucial in the act of reaching beneath the surface and stirring those tender subterranean regions of the self. Regions that eye-contact-deniers can never, will never, ever touch. This is no order of corporal brutality. That you can cope with, beatings you have taken many times, and you have worn your welts with pride. I know this. This is why you require another order of experience, which involves encroachment upon areas of your very self, and an experience of vulnerability that you thought that you had long ago left behind. Yes, this is of another order and it unsettles you. I want to enter that place and revel there... Now, the question: would you let me?

Your initial denial is very strong, there is such admirable, wonderful and hard-earned 'will' behind it. But our eyes are locked utterly. I can have a steely penetrating regard. Now, I know that you can too, and I would utterly welcome that. You would give as good as you get at first, because you have a great raft of inner experience to draw upon, and a towering strength as a result in such stressful circumstances. As we know, not all 'stress' is bad. The stresses you have known have supplied your reserve of steel: this strength of yours is a power that grinds most men's paltry resolve into the dust. But we are there, still, nonetheless, suspended in time as it were, with nothing else in the world, it seems, but the stark electricity of the connection between our eyes. And gradually something starts to happen, your resistance, upon which you rely, in which you hold such a personal store of pride, is starting to weaken. Strangely at first, in a veiled way, you can't put your finger on it, but there is something in the unimpeachably level and unwavering return of the gaze from my grey eyes that feels like a chilling and irresistible invitation. I note the change in you and it satisfies me but I want more. For a moment you want to tear your eyes away and the rapid blink gives betrays that impulse to me, and far from delivering the release you seek, you find yourself instead utterly unable to break the connection.

Somehow, imperceptibly, the intensity has increased and, in spite of yourself, you begin to long for me to enter you. To enter you. To enter you utterly. It comes over you in waves of almost physical sensation, especially in the region of the solar plexus, right there, over the heart, between those full, heavy, glistening breasts... the sensation is so charged, you cannot resist it, an inner throb, pulsing out from the heart in shock waves to the dermis itself, exacerbating the beading of perspiration there (now they conjoin, and flow in small tingling rivulets over that taut flesh); the areolae taut, and the nipples start to ache, almost as though they need to feed, throbbing outward from the inside, enlarging, pulsing, tingling... To enter you... enter you...and you know I am not simply describing putting my cock or some instrument into your cunt, between the now-longing slick curtain of your swollen cunt lips, no...no, I am not speaking of 'entering' in that crude sense. I am referring to the act of ingress into your very being. Do you remember the warning in the film (book before it) 'The Silence of The Lambs', where Crawford tells the naive Clarice, "Don't let Hannibal Lecter into your head". (Amazing book, I recommend it). Trust me, you would not want to let me into your head at the moment I am speaking of. Yet you want it so desperately now. Arousing the reckless wanton in you. This is the 'wanting' which unsettles us, even terrifies us, but also attracts us very darkly.

Small involuntary moans have started to slip through your open lips, which are dry from your inhalations. You moisten them with a quick pink tongue and I note that, reminding myself of exactly how hard that darling muscle deserves to be bitten, in a while...All of the instruments of torment, whatever the fucking ridiculous trussed-up situation you may be in, all of those props and baubles that have been brought to bare upon you in your long career of sexual subjugation; all of it, all of it falls to nothing in that electro-statically charged space between our two inexorably closening beings. Everything is so very heightened now. Your breath short, your high perspiration-beaded breasts rising and falling rapidly, those bursting buds aching and throbbing to be bitten, sucked, chewed, licked, kneaded, anything to release the tension...but still it builds... that tension a swelling within that manifests in involuntary shudders, which ripple your skin attractively; your entire body fired now with goosebumps and primed utterly in arousal; your clitoris bud throbbing against its hopeless little hood, ripples of sensation spreading out from it over your mound and under your pelvis, an utterly feminine longing... Perspiration is running down your back and between that fine cleft between your excellent mare's muscular buttocks, your abdomen clenching, your cunt lips loose and wanting, slick with their own honeyed drool, a slight quiver to those long muscular thighs and calves, that familiar tautness at the Achilles heels heightened now by the added effort of keeping yourself erect in this unfamiliarly prone and vulnerable state, elegantly surmounting those patent black heels, in which you stand, so admirably defiant, wanting and fearing, your resolve ever weakening.. and still, we gaze...