This is for the meta-watchers and mind twisters.

I started bottoming after I watched a dominant bottom to his submissive at a party. The sub seemed intent on pushing him to safewording; the blows were severe and went on without pause for over 45 minutes. Eventually, the sub gave up and ended the scene. He (this dominant) had endured more than I think his submissive ever could.
from gl-asb list

The words belong to no one.

I was gagged. Not by hard rubber to bite down upon. Not by the sweet funk of underclothes. No texture. No taste. I was gagged with words. I was forced for the duration of my submission to speak. I was to tell stories. True stories. I was to use names. Pronouns were forbidden.

If I fell silent there would be no whip to stimulate my reluctant accomplishment of the task. No bark to urge me on. The command would never be repeated. It was spoken once, softly, kindly and with assurance. The command came with wisdom. To fall silent was to face my own torrent of voices and there was no quiet there except in the body's motion, the rattle of chains binding my arms hoisted above my head. I closed my eyes often to sway in the chimes. Talk without pronouns was difficult.

I could ask for water. Open my eyes. Gaze freely. I could not say "I". Dared not say "you". Thus one muddy troublesome verb disappeared from my vocabulary. The verbs became modulated. "Would Alpha be so kind as to spit in Delta's face?" A regal politeness dwelt upon my lips and a specificity reigned in my desires.

I began to tell stories of those that were not there. They came.

Incense was lighted around me. A stick at each name. Would they take the glowing embers and burn each passage into my flesh? Where would the marks of my telling reside?

I feared the shades my speaking invoked. Feared more the ghastly ephemera of the winding smoke. But fear was easy when finding shame at the root of lust, I wanted to be told, craved an accounting.

I was wanting to know. I was afraid the waves of smoke and names had banished the possibility of knowing the inventor of pronouns. There is no name for this one. One is a pronoun. I wavered. The chains above me rattled. My feet barely touching the floor could offer no grounding. The fumes rose.

The mystery, the motivation, the encounter. All swirled. Was I speaking? Comfort in the body and comfort in the language could never meet for me. The pain of one, joy for the other. My arms were aching. My tongue swerved for the safeword. There was none.

I have been deceived. I feel shame. I want to belong. I.  I.  I. Deceit plays with knowledge. I knew. I forgot. Shame plays with the consequences of forgetting. Belonging means letting go. What? What had clung to me? What weight that memory could not lighten?

I closed my eyes. Heard the chains. One hitting against the other. Changed my orientation. Grew silent with thoughts of enduring and of pleasing.

If all hard tops are in some fashion polite and their apologies are swift and full of dignity, if the top acts on knowledge, always in control, then this gift was mine if i could discover what pushes a top to push a stoic submissive to ask questions, what pushes a top to so twist mind and body to induce this scene where a command, a strict order, becomes a question, a set of questions. Why?

That is a dangerous word. My safety lay in transgression. A whispered pronoun would lift me from this heaven into the rupture of contact and another hell. No easy cliche like I love you. This lesson deserves the proper words. The words belong to no one. "We belong."

"First person plural." Was the answer. "Next time no past or future tenses --- no chains --- pure poetry." The chained one wept.

© 1996 François Lachance
Interlinear Commentary