What's in a bow?

Sometimes I will come upon my cat, Lily, sitting still as a statue, watching the world. And in those times, although I know I should just leave her be, I cannot resist petting her. Without fail, when she sees my hand reaching toward her, she will bow her head in the most achingly graceful arch, facing down, exposing the back of her neck to my touch, showing me that she trusts me not to hurt her.

I watch her as my fingers stroke the soft fur, eliciting purrs of contentment and I think of how like me she is at these times. Looking at her I can see myself as I kneel or sit at J's feet, my legs curled under me, my cheek resting on his knee. I can imagine his hand reaching over, almost absentmindedly, to stroke my hair and the nape of my neck.

It is when his touch is at its gentlest, his fingers barely skimming over my curls that I feel my heart expand with love and trust for him. And yet, that same light stroke takes on a whole new meaning when his fingers occasionally tighten on the back of my head; a silent reminder that whatever else I may be, I am his submissive.

He is so many things to me - my lover, my partner, my friend, my Dom. Isn't it strange that all of these come together in such an innocuously vanilla gesture as a gentle caress?

I bow before you, Milord.