Content Warning: kink, D/s, orgasm denial, orgasm control, references to religion

On Monday I was given permission to orgasm for the first time since New Year’s Day. It was a desperate, needy, breathless orgasm that felt a very long time coming, more than just the twenty four days I’d been denied. It was the longest stretch without release I’d had in a long time, and the ache of endurance felt wonderful. In the wake of my yelping, writhing, quaking orgasm I had a moment of stillness and clarity that it’s taken me a couple days to understand. 

In the past couple of weeks, I have been binge-watching The Crown, and it is absolutely marvellous. Beautifully made, wonderfully cast, I’m enjoying it very much. However, I was caught off guard by a scene between Prince Philip and his mother, Princess Alice, in which she asked him a very poignant question: How is your faith? His answer was equally as intentional: Dormant.

I have never been a religious person, nor a person of faith. I have beliefs, theories, feelings about the greater forces of the universe and how things work, but faith has never been a central theme in my life in any way. That scene between Philip and his mother stayed with me, gnawed at me, and then I realised why: it was connected to the moment of stillness after Monday’s long-awaited orgasm. Suddenly the thoughts slid together and began to gel: submission is my faith.

Our dynamic is the only place in my life where I purposefully, intentionally and without reservation, accept things at face value. I don’t question, I don’t complain, I don’t influence or manipulate, I simply follow, and I do so in good faith that He always has my best interests in mind. In  every other waking moment of my life I question and analyze and overthink, because I don’t trust much; not others, not systems or governing bodies, not even myself sometimes. But Him? Always.

Can one have a system of faith that surrounds one person? He’s not a god, as much as I adore and revere Him, He is still just a man made of flesh and blood and bones. He is fallible, imperfect and real; there is no pretence that He is anything else, and the nuances of the dynamic are such that we are equals, but distinctly different. He is a humble, caring and intelligent man, and that is exactly why I can lay my faith in His hands: because there is no expectation that I should. He has earned my trust and respect but He has never demanded them, never implied that I should love or care for Him in any way other than how I do. There’s no dogma in our dynamic, no way to fail. By waiving my choice and control in some matters, and trusting Him implicitly, I have developed a faith in Him that is unique and ideal. The phrase “Let go and let God” is one that I have heard all my life and could never prescribe to. It felt insincere, as if handing off my troubles to a man in the sky was irresponsible, silly, foolish, even. It seemed a way to wash one’s hands of problems and troubles, like an apathetic shrug that let Fate or Destiny or God take the blame. But I can see now how faith works. It’s a bit like the shards of coloured glass that make up church windows: one moment of faith, like one bit of glass, is not enough to see clearly through, but when you painstakingly assemble many mismatched parts, the image becomes clear and the light shines in.

Faith is not a single act. It is not one devotion, nor one statement of belief; it is an evolving system that we must re-visit regularly. We must nurture it. Faith is ongoing and alive and so close to love that it can be hard to tell them apart, and perhaps they actually aren’t different at all. Like love, faith is a form of freedom. There is a lightness of being that comes with dissolving the ego and allowing things to unfurl around you, handing over the weight of the world and waiting to see what comes next. For me that freedom and lightness has not come from God, and it has not come from Him. He has been instrumental; He has shown me the pools of coloured light that are cast upon the floor and He has watched as I have realised that the light, and the lightness that I feel, is me.

 


Violet

Violet Fawkes (she/her) is a freelance writer and sex blogger focusing on pleasure education, erotic fiction, and the intersection of identity, kink and mental health.