It isn’t romantic. And all the overblown, overplayed, over-the-top portrayals of it as romantic won’t change that. Sacrifices might seem special, but fifty years ago you’d have given it all up for a man, and everyone would just nod knowing it was that way. Today you do it and suddenly it’s super-romantic, super-hot and super-submissive BDSM.

Don’t kid yourself. It isn’t romantic.

BDSM is about as romantic as breathing.

It’s something you do because you have to do it, or die. Your breasts ache for aching. Your unbruised bottom feels naked. You kneel for him because you have to do it. To survive.

To Live.

He’s the same way. His cruelty engraved on his DNA by generations of hunter-gatherer providers. He takes because he is a taker, of a long line of takers.

He may love you, or think he does. The chemicals make it so. Neurotransmitters align within his brain as he slaps your breasts. His cock hardens as you whimper. Endorphins open up channels to your inner places, sending signals through your nervous system to be ready for his invasion.

Love, or an approximation. Like I said, it isn’t romantic.

It is lust
       and pain and
 Oh, my, it is orgasm after orgasm after orgasm after orgasm.

It isn’t a sacrifice to breathe
                     to be on your knees
                     to suck his cock
                     to open your legs
                     to let him take you.

It isn't a sacrifice to do what you want to do
                                    what your genes want to do
                                    what your cunt wants to do
                                    what your brain forces you to do.

Compelled to submit by your very nature.

It isn't romantic.

It just is.

And it will be, over and over again

With Him

as he follows his own irrevocable desires

and takes you again
              and again.