I like being on my knees. I love kneeling before a man and taking his cock in my mouth. I love that he is standing at attention twice. He stands and sways and fights the weakness in his knees. I love that power, that control. In that moment, I own him.
But there’s another side of being on my knees. There’s crawling. For me, crawling isn’t about power. Crawling is about humiliation, about desperation. It brings to my mind a million songs that talk about crawling back, crawling through something dreadful to return. But crawling as a penance…
To be ordered to crawl, to feel the carpet bite into my knees or maybe the hard smooth press of wood or rough drag of concrete. To be on both hands and knees, not in control but the one controlled. I want my breasts to hang down heavy and sway with each movement, while I know that my ass is raised and on display. To crawl to make amends, to show devotion, to find transcendence. Yes, I think I like that idea.
I want to crawl to you, as you sit comfortably on a chair or sofa. You, sitting at ease, fully clothed. Perhaps wearing a suit and tie, perhaps wearing some sort of vestment to preside over me.
I want you to watch me move slowly, deliberately across the floor. I want to reach your feet, your legs and finish my penance. Only to be ordered to crawl, to crawl back across the room, out of the room. To crawl to the toy box and select a paddle or crop. To carry it back, yes in my mouth, yes, still on my hands and knees. I want to crawl, not back to you in shame, but through shame. To return with the tool of my punishment, and to offer it and myself to you, so I may reach transcendence. To stay on my hands and knees, and with each crack of the paddle feel myself shift forward. To feel my heavy breasts sway and shake with each smack.
I want to stay on my knees, until I feel purged. Until I have submitted fully and totally.