RITUAL

An Inspired Scene

Amy Judith Reuben
Human Parts
4 min readDec 14, 2024

By Amy Judith Reuben

“What measure of my contribution is worthy of your reciprocation in this validated union, Sir,” I ask with a downward gaze, and all sincerity flushing into my face. My feet stand bare, attentive, toes straight, heels evenly balancing all of my featherweight. I breathe deeply into the four corners of each sole, the ball of my big and pinkie toes, and both sides of my heels, with lifted arches I am grounded, so as not to fluctuate from my erect posture, until I am instructed to rise. All primal elements encapsulate my bones, my flesh; full connection of my earth surges upward through water, fire, and air, offering me outward to his receptive energy of the etheric field.

Vulnerability, is a shy veil to the coolness sifting down from the ceiling fan whirring and whirling above my head. It reminds me that not a shred of fabric covers my exposed petite frame. I am presented as in birth, unswaddled, flesh maintains a timid and freckled innocence, softness is not jaded by the age spots that saturate my inner thighs. As a palette of design these oblong and heart shaped dots beg to take on a remote likeness to the stars’ constellations, helplessly separate from each other, yet in glorious patterns tens, hundreds, thousands of lightyears distance away. I am one star smattered in each different constellation every time my formal nakedness is requested for this self-affirming ritual of asking a solitary question.

He observes my qualities without absorption. “It is for your benefit firstly,” he confirms for the tenth, hundredth, thousandth or so time. “Secondly,” I confirm in my own mind, but no utterance comes from my lips. “His benefit firstly, and mine secondly,” my thought insists. I sense how he receives the greater pleasure in demanding my participation in this regularly executed, obscure ritual far more than I do playing it out at his insistence. I pose a single, honest question in poised and eloquently elevated diction to him, at his whim, whenever he is inclined to it. He is prepared to answer without reservation for firstly my benefit, so the question I pose is orchestrated with a nuance that accommodates my benefit firstly, while in actuality it constitutes his.

“His benefit firstly, and mine secondly,” my thought concludes. This is the solitary instance where I am free to yield my power as he remains in control. Or is it? Regardless, it is a practiced prowess owned by only an seasoned submissive, and yet, in measure it is barely equal to a pound of what he provides. He imparts tons worth to the power exchange, equal to tenfold, hundredfold, thousandfold that of my naked featherweight, but even with the professed imbalance of the scales it is an even exchange; a hundred percent combination which ensures that I am never slighted, and he is served on all levels with all levels of my being. It is equitable on all accounts.

I want this, need this, and crave this in my entirety so, I stand head bowed, eyes down, humble with hands clasped behind my unclad back, an alluring participatory look of anticipation and gratitude on all my pinkish cheeks. I know he is excited by my dedication and ability to wait steadily for an undetermined amount of time to ask the question once again that has been asked since being inducted into his fold. I pledge myself to his rapture and yes, I take direction well. I pride myself in the strength of character, resourcefulness, tolerance, and patience that I possess, for that’s what it requires to be voluntarily in his servitude.

He steps around me, pacing lightly, as he watches to see if I falter in my stance. I do not. Not anymore. I am firm. He will direct me to be still for whatever time he chooses, may it be two minutes, or twenty. It’s his decision, so I grant myself the act of inaction. Meditatively not questioning the ritual or its purpose, my mind holds the pre-concieved question as a mantra. Nothing else matters in this moment, in each moment, aside from being in stillness until he directs me to ask. Then I satisfy his request.

“What measure of my contribution is worthy of your reciprocation in this validated union, Sir?” I wait. He directs me to lift my gaze and look at him attentively when he responds, not directly into his eyes, but directly at his entire self like a student to a teacher. I’m in full acknowledgement that the tangible rationalization of why this ritual exists manifests in a far less static way than standing. It is physically and sensually arousing. I smile as he embarks to take hold of me, to take me at his will. My mind silently concedes, “yes, Sir firstly for my benefit.”

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Human Parts
Human Parts
Amy Judith Reuben
Amy Judith Reuben

Written by Amy Judith Reuben

Amy Judith Reuben is a playwright, poet, & historian of The District more commonly known as "Storyville." She's now exploring her love of erotica creatively!

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