Spilled Ink from the Vault

Vivaldi. I recall almost a tonne of Warmblood horseflesh
beneath me, sun absorbed by the bulging glossy ebony
of epaxial musculature, and I feel the raw power.
He is a tightly coiled spring and I am under no illusion
that my physical strength is any match for his.
There remains an aura of wild about him, and I know
he could throw me if he chose. There is danger,
and yet, I fear not. With the lightest touch or release
of my fingers, and the pressure of my inner thigh,
he obeys, and this stallion and I move as one
as he yields to the bit. My communication is gentle,
but clear and decisive, and he translates my commands
into a veritable ballet. A score of years since that symphony
and yet tonight the percussion reverberates through my core,
and the harmony and melody once again intertwine.
I have seen you at what might be called the epitome
of your masculinity; not toxic, but self assured,
dominant. But here, in this moment, you submit
to me, and my respect for you is more than ever before.
One of life’s paradoxes, that a man’s strength may be revealed
by his responses to his weaknesses, his vulnerabilities.
You cede your very being to my will: your pleasure,
your pain, your desires, your fears, and I will both
hold them with reverence, and direct them as I please.
We both know the truth: I could control a lesser man
through his fear and the sheer force of my will, but with you,
my power blooms from the fecund soil of your submission,
as you trust me to use you to create my next opus.