I watch the way my words rain down on you, and the way they leave you powerless, and I’m suddenly glad that no military power has stumbled upon me and decided to weaponise. I see you convulse, your mind firing shots off into the air in a desperate attempt to fight back, but it’s hilariously outgunned, and totally outmatched. I watch you falter. I watch you try to retreat, but your back is against the wall, and I just won’t stop. The words keep coming, salvo after salvo, and your walls crumble, your hull breaches, and you just keep sinking.
It’s a magic trick I don’t dare question, the kind of illusion that is as strong as you believe it to be, but the moment doubt slips into your mind it’ll poof, and gone. For now, though, it’s an ox rampaging down your street, tossing pedestrians left and right and headed straight for your door. You’re unprepared, even though you’re asking for it, and when my voice slips into the tone of my Dominant, the side of me that you crave for so very much, you melt with the heat of it. It’s not an icecube turning into a puddle on the floor, but all the iron and steel in you turning into molten metal, something that can be poured into a mould, made into a shape that I see as fitting.
Each word another hammer blow to the red hot blade. Forming, shaping, guiding. Each word a plunge into the water, each word a hiss as you moan away the heat. And then there you are, still steaming, this thing that I have created. This thing that you have allowed yourself to become. This beautiful thing that is battered, bruised, a vocabulary of violence visited. You’re exhausted, and we haven’t even begun. Your mind reels, and I don’t ever let it gets its balance again.
I’m drunk on power, and you’re drowning in it.
(Fuente: waitingformydaddy, vía megatits)
