She thinks about it often,

too often,

 the idyllic state of surrender.

The sweet bliss of the blindfold,

the gentle strength of the rope,

the helplessness,

the release,

the freedom.

The spicy sting of his hand erases the guilt,

and stops her churning, agonizing thoughts.

In those moments,

she is utterly his,

the only expectation,

is that she has none,

except to be there,

completely there.

She thinks about it often,

too often,

and she aches

to be engulfed in his arms,

to rest her weary head against his chest,

to give away her power,

and be weak.