You Are Perfect, To Me

A Letter to My Owned and Collared Sub

Sep 8 · 4 min read
Photo by Will O on Unsplash

In so many ways, since the moment we really discovered each other, I’ve always looked at you through a prism of perfection akin divinity.

When I think of you and your beautiful mind, and everything you do, and every action you take, there is no right or wrong thought process that invades my psyche. This may seem like a romantic gesture full of fluff, but it’s not; I’m just stating the facts, in how I observe you.

There is no judgment within me. No question marks about your soul. No math to work out.

It just is, the way it is.

You are perfect — to me.

Consciously, I am well aware that there is an idealistic underpinning driving it all. Thoughts of passionate love, swirling around inside of a bowl of dopamine mixed in with the highest hopes, when I foresee two old souls on a patio as the sun sets and the sky becomes orange.

I know, cognitively, that there are no perfect human beings in the world.

Having been raised in a Christian home, I always heard the message of the liturgy loud and clear. Refreshing within me the notion that persisted since before I developed free thought. The message being, of course, that there was only one human ever who was perfect that ever walked the earth. As irony would have it, cognizant of the brain-washing I sustained, I nevertheless still believe.

But I run an erotica network of blogs and social media accounts where I’ve given intellectual housewives erotic word porn to rub vaginas to.

I’m hardly St. Thomas Aquinas.

Nevertheless, I know who I am, how I believe my God sees me, and I’m comfortable with that. Judgmental, hate-mongering crispies the world over can all lick my balls. I never gave a shit for approval from the WASPs in the pews in the first place.

But I am conflicted now, because, for the first time in my life, I see the truest perfection existing within a human being.

I see it, in the form of olive skin, brown hair, brown eyes, the biggest heart, and a smile that makes a grown man melt like butter.

I see you, My Love, in a way I never knew you could see a person.

I watch your thoughts formulate as you speak, and your brain becomes the most magical wonderland I’ve ever known. Your synapses fire and I am on the edge of my seat, waiting for the next word, absolutely convinced that these next ones should be carved in stone, worthy for the next generation to hear and feel as I do.

Your heart is a warm blanket, to everyone lucky enough to come in contact with you. Quite possibly the part I love most, with you in my arms, holding you through laughter or pain, there is no feeling quite like having your arm across my chest.

Your insecurities to me, at first thought, seem like a stand-up routine, because my first instinct inside is to tell myself, “she has to be joking, right? Doesn’t she know she is perfection?” My act serious demeanor saves me, as I hear the pain in your voice when you are weak and doubt yourself, and a call to arms develops within me, to reassure you, as I remember your whole life you’ve never had that encouragement before.

I see you, for who you really are, in the most complete way.

There is no haziness in my vision.

I see your crazy and I see your happiness; I see your anger and I see your giving nature. I see your fears; I see your love.

I see it all — and I still think the same thing.

That you are perfect.

I see the parts we can’t share with everyone, and I know it pains you as it does me, that we can’t tell the whole world of all the things we have found through our D/s bond. The crave within you that too many people would never understand. That crave, for you to submit your whole self into me. The rewards that we both feel as only made possible by me owning you, and you giving yourself to me.

To give, the part you ache so much to release and flow into me, so I can hold you up and we can become one together. To own you; to guide you. To lead you and to be the safe place for your vulnerability. It’s unfortunate that everyone around us can’t see the beauty of this bond through our D/s, as it escalates to levels that would make them all envious for what we have. If they only knew what we know and feel.

When I’m inside you, I see in your eyes an old forgotten language being spoken to me. It’s a look that is unmistakable, where I can tell you are looking into my soul, and mine into yours, and our souls slow dance together and melt into one. No matter how hard, intense, rough or soft, slow or fast, it’s always the same when I am inside you — it’s just love.

I hope that when you doubt yourself, you will remember this piece I wrote.

I hope that when you question your worth, you will remember…

How I see you.

The Romantic Dominant

Written by

Passion. Love. D/s and erotica from a male perspective. Middle-aged American Dominant. Read-Enjoy-Touch. Very taken, by an Orange Sky.

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