…and then it’s all gone

That other world slips away

And I have come home.

Let go!

Mark off a little space, just big enough to hold your body in a kneel. Give it a roof in your mind, make it a little box, perhaps a cage. Don’t go in.

That space belongs to me. When you enter it, you may bring nothing with you.

Stress eats at your vitality, tears at your nerves, makes you hard when I want you to yield and weak when I need you strong.

Leave it outside.

Fears and worries from your daily life are valid, important. But right now, they are inappropriate.

Leave them outside.

Hatred, anger, pain. Release them.

Make it practical. You don’t have to be perfect. And you don’t need surroundings of total serenity. Take distractions, smile at them if you can, shake them off, make them a part of the strength of this place. Not always possible. Do your best. Don’t worry.

Bow your head.

Know that you’re entering a different space, a place where you serve. Everything is secondary to that.

Come in.

Breathe.

You’re mine.

Let go of everything else.

You’re mine.

Anything else—forget it.

Don’t think about it.

You don’t need it right now.

Let go.

Focus

An old exercise, borrowed.

Light a candle. Focus on the flame.

Stay there. Keep your mind there, keep your eyes there. Keep your attention there, held in one place.

Focus is more than patience, better than patience. Like patience, it’s the power of waiting, using control to reach the right moments. But focus is active. Focus is intense. If the candle were to change, alter itself, you’d know the instant it happened. You’d react. You’re awake. Concentrating.

See into the flame, separate it into colors. Make the experience as rich as possible, find a depth and meaning, invent one if you wish. Don’t lose your concept. Pay attention to the flame. But expand.

Push everything else aside. If you need a secondary focus, concentrated on breathing, slow.

Stay with the flame. If you’re having trouble, relax, try to push the trouble to the back of your head, if you can’t get rid of it. Don’t think too much about the trouble focusing, just look at the flame.

When you can’t concentrate well, or you feel you’ve done enough for now, blow out the candle. Focus, just for a moment, on the last puff of smoke.

Control

Somehow, it feels more important than being a simple sex slave. The mindless and mannerless can be gagged and restrained. How much more elegant to be a slave who can restrain herself mentally for her master.

Quinn

Submissives who lack self-control are energy vampires.

They’re tiring. They’re stressful. They’re not worth my time.

I’m not talking about submissives who fight or disobey. I’m not talking about those who are micromanaged because they crave it. I’m talking about those who must be micromanaged because they’re willing to give me nothing.

When I was in college, I visited a certain s/m club. We were a group of four: myself, another dominant, and two submissive women. Now at this club, most people were more than twice our age, and the largest group consisted of older, theoretically-submissive men. The women in our group were in their early 20s, and happened to be very physically attractive.

Almost as soon as we entered we acquired an entourage of horny, older men, crawling after us the whole evening, begging to touch my date (“No.”) and masturbating near our playspaces.

This was not, in my eyes, a submission.

Lack of self-control can take many forms. Inability to focus, for one. Inability to handle minor discomfort or simple denials. Inability to speak or act properly.

Understand, fighting, arguing, intentional disobedience, etc. for the sake of testing one’s dominant—these are, to me, normal and healthy. But I’m not some kind of masturbation device, and I really don’t have the desire to be treated that way. I may fulfill your fantasies, but I’ll do that at my discretion, in my own way, depending on our negotiations and relationship. I have my own desires and needs, and failing to acknowledge them isn’t simply bad submission; it’s disrespect for me as a human being.

If you don’t care enough to control yourself, you surely can’t expect me to control you.

Gone

Today, you are a ghost.

Lie down in darkness, close your eyes, let go. Pretend the breathing you feel is someone else’s breath, the heartbeat you hear is disconnected from your body. Float in your mind, float and let go. You can’t feel your hands, your mouth, your skin. Let go.

You’ve lost touch with the life you knew, it’s ephemeral, translucent, intangible. Half-real, half-remembered, fragments of an uneasy sleep.

Find something you love to taste and hold it on your tongue. Taste it with need, as if you were going to die in a moment, this is the last sensation you are allowed. Taste it with urgency.

You glow, you shine, you’ve broken out of a human body. This body is like your old one, but more vivid; every movement you make now recalls layers and layers of memory and desire.

Look at your hand. Curl fingers, make them into slow shapes, move your arm. Become aware of the way your body moves, become intimate with the connection between body and mind, the complexity of a single motion.

It hurt, becoming a ghost, and then you felt a void for a little while, where there was nothing, a starving blankness. Now your hunger is past reason, past control, as you throw off the taste of that cold place.

Find a physical pleasure, resting, coolth, masturbation, music, or what-have-you. Enter into it as if nothing else existed. Race towards it, feel it slow, let it swell into you—whatever you most need to do to absorb this sensation, do it.

Little spirit—

I’m coming to chase you down.