What unsettles me is not the excess.
What unsettles me is that I keep thinking about it after it ends.
If it were a simple inclination, it would be easy. If I truly enjoyed submission in the straightforward way some people seem to enjoy it, there would be no conflict. I would accept the desire as one accepts any ordinary preference.
But that is not what happens.
Part of me rejects the entire process.
A part that looks at the Master and thinks none of this makes sense.
That I should stand up.
That I should leave the room.
That I should reclaim complete ownership of my decisions.
And yet that same part remains.
Not because of conviction.
Not because of obedience.
It remains because it needs to know how the process ends.
Perhaps that was always the real intuition of the Marquis de Sade.
Not pleasure.
Not scandal.
Not provocation.
But the obsession with carrying a mechanism to its final consequence in order to discover what remains afterward.
Sade seemed to suspect that certain questions could only be answered by moving completely through the process that created them.
And that is exactly what happens to me.
I do not like being submissive.
At least not in the simple way the phrase is usually understood.
I do not experience immediate happiness.
I do not feel relief.
I do not find comfort.
What I find is a fierce curiosity.
A compulsive need to observe what happens when the procedure continues beyond the point where my logic would have chosen to stop.
The Master then appears as a kind of architect of endings.
Not because he controls my will.
But because he seems to know the complete path of something I only perceive in fragments.
As the process unfolds, I continue resisting.
I continue arguing internally.
I continue finding reasons to leave.
Yet the excitement appears anyway.
Not as a reward.
Not as approval.
It appears as an independent phenomenon.
Like an underground current that does not consult my opinions before existing.
And that is deeply irritating.
Because my mind continues producing objections while my attention returns again and again to the same place.
The same mechanism.
The same ending.
There are moments when I barely hear the words.
The only thing I perceive is that the process is still unfolding.
That it is not finished.
That something is still missing.
And the waiting begins to occupy more space than any other sensation.
I am not waiting for an order.
I am not waiting for punishment.
I am not waiting for a reward.
I am waiting for the ending.
I need to see how the equation concludes.
I need to discover which version of myself remains once every stage has been completed.
Perhaps that is why the real tension never appears at the beginning.
It appears near the closure.
When the system seems to approach its resolution.
When the Master no longer represents authority but conclusion.
When every second seems to ask quietly:
What if after all this you are exactly the same?
That possibility unsettles me.
And so does the opposite.
That is why I return.
Not because I love submission.
But because I still have not stopped chasing the ending of a process that seems to know something about me that I do not yet know myself.
The neck has locked I should…
