Years ago, I created a tribute to the beauty of submissive men, with contributions from submissive men and from those who love them. It is still my most favourite project, and illustrates, truly, how the nature of beauty is so much more complex than it seems on the surface.
This video is the result of those generous contributions.
Let me say this without any slight on him: My last submissive was not a conventionally handsome man. He was not the kind of man who would attract surreptitious admiring looks when he walked down the street.
But he had these almond-shaped doe-eyes framed by long dark lashes hidden behind his glasses: They would blink slowly at me when he started to slip into subspace, always a little confused, as if there was some mystery that could be unraveled if he looked at me more intensely.
A voice that told stories with its cadence, that always seemed to be on the verge of a question, a slight lilt, a hybrid American accent, almost a lisp that never quite eventuated.
His perfectly-formed bubble butt was a surprise, hidden chastely under baggy ill-fitting pants that looked as if he’d probably picked them off a pile and put them on without looking. An arse that looked better in my panties than I did.
A broadness across his shoulders that was draped in pristine porcelain-pale skin, soft as silk, velvety, as if it had never been touched or marred or marked.
A quickness in the corners of his soft mouth, ready to lift in a laugh, or to make me laugh, his open smile a gift to those lucky enough to be in its range, contagious happiness, pure infectious joy.
Crowned atop his puppy-head, an endlessly pettable crew cut, a number 2 maybe, that he would do himself, often carelessly. It looked as if it might be spiky but it was belly-fur soft, and he would sweetly lean into pats as if they were some new wonderment that he’d never felt before.
His entire face would soften when I spoke to him in ‘that tone’, his open heart transparently displayed, adoration, delight, his attention focus-sharp even while his insides melted.
And sometimes, when he thought I wasn’t looking, I’d catch him watching me, some cautious reverence, a tenderness resting quietly on his expressive face, sheepishly blushing when he realised I’d noticed. I would, for the most part, make light of it, a joke, a jab, but I could see his idea of me written on his face, and wanted nothing more than to be worthy of it.
He was, with no word of a lie, The. Most. Beautiful. Thing I’d ever seen.
He never believed it really, but it was 100% true.