#Chapter69
There was an art to losing oneself: it was a fragile state of mind, stranded in the no-man's land that wedged itself between sanity and reality.
There was an art to losing oneself, and as darkness stole away at my sight and dormant sins kissed at my bare flesh, I was falling. I was unravelling like a web of silk, only to be caught, suspended in an airy abyss of blissful peace.
I was losing myself so very beautifully, so completely, and I didn't mind one little bit.
It was my gift to him; even with stolen vision, Daddy's gaze, his presence surrounded me like the very air I needed to survive. He was my beginning and my end, the gentle hands that guided me into the state of submission, and the honey-soaked words that cocooned the mindset in safety and reassurance.
The aura of power that radiated from him, washing over me in thick, pleasing waves . . . nothing else mattered; Daddy was all that there was.
