Stacy was tethered to her workstation, a sleek obsidian island in the otherwise sterile office. Her fingers danced across the keyboard, coaxing lines of code into existence – a silent, intricate symphony she conducted with logic. She loved the precise, almost intimate connection to the systems, each line a whispered invitation to unlock hidden depths. But even this exquisite control held a dull ache, a simmering boredom that clung to her like static electricity. The hum of the servers felt less like a comforting rhythm and more like a low, insistent pulse, mirroring the subtle tension building within her as she wrestled with the intricate algorithms. It was a dance of intellect, but one that left her yearning for something more visceral.

Boredom, a persistent hum beneath her skin, had begun to stir something deeper. The endless lines of code, the predictable logic – it felt like a pale reflection of the vibrant chaos she craved. A yearning for a spiritual household, a sanctuary woven with intention and devotion, began to bloom in her mind. Stacy accepted that some forces danced beyond her grasp; fate, a capricious mistress, orchestrated the grand design. Yet, she also believed in her own power to shape the currents, to subtly influence the threads of destiny. It was a dangerous game – to believe one could command fate, but Stacy felt drawn to the challenge. Each line of code she wrote became a whispered prayer, each system she optimized a subtle act of weaving her own path through the intricate tapestry of existence. The desire to mold, to command, resonated with a primal need for connection, a yearning that hummed beneath the surface of her carefully constructed control.

It was no wonder she felt the weight of boredom—fate, it seemed, had a particular fondness for testing her limits. Stacy was a regular presence at the gym, a quiet observer in a world dominated by sculpted physiques and aggressive displays. Her appearance was deliberately unassuming: thick-rimmed bifocals perched on her nose, a light brown cascade of hair framing a face softened by gentle eyes the color of sea glass. Loose-fitting jeans and a T-shirt, often concealing her form beneath layers, were her armor against the casual advances of men. She’d learned to navigate a world that often felt like a minefield, carefully guarding her intentions and refusing to offer any invitation. It wasn’t about rejection; it was about control—a fierce determination to shape her own story, to dictate the terms of her existence. Beneath the layers, a subtle tension thrummed—a quiet strength born from years of self-preservation. The way her muscles moved beneath the fabric, a hint of the power she held within, was a secret language, a silent promise to herself that she wouldn’t yield.

It was perhaps the quiet ache of being single that fueled her search for a thrill, a reckless gamble with fate. She liked the idea—the intoxicating uncertainty of letting go, of surrendering to a moment’s intensity. And since it was a particularly dull Friday, Stacy decided to wager on Faith. She loved the exquisite burn of cumming, a deep, primal satisfaction that few understood. It became a problem—a constant craving, an insistent whisper demanding to be answered. Fate, it seemed, had a cruel sense of humor; it decreed cell. It was something she’d spent years trying to control, a battle waged over the years against the insistent pull of her body. Yet, the men and women she met—each encounter a fleeting disappointment—never truly quenched that burning need. It wasn’t about having a good time, not entirely; it was akin to a child desperately craving sugar—a persistent hunger that always demanded more. A deep, aching desire for something beyond the surface, a yearning that threatened to consume her entirely.

That’s perhaps why she stopped dating altogether. The rhythmic click-click-click of her pink, mechanical keyboard in the office became a shield—a constant, predictable pulse against the chaos of human connection. Click-clack-clank, she typed away, a mechanical dance translating into lines of code, a small contribution to a business that only cared about short-term profits, utterly indifferent to the human cost. She liked it—this lack of a caring entity, this feeling of being utterly unneeded. The benefits were undeniably great: financial security, a quiet life, and the freedom to exist entirely within her own world. But at the end of the day, the business only cared about its bottom line, and that, strangely, turned Stacy on. It was a cold comfort, a deliberate severance from the messy, demanding needs of another person. The repetitive motion, the precise clicks and clanks, felt strangely… stimulating. It was a lonely existence, yes, but it was her loneliness—a carefully constructed solitude that allowed her to exist outside the demands of affection, a space where she could simply be, unburdened and free. The keyboard became an extension of herself, a conduit for her desires—a silent testament to her refusal to yield.

“Sigh—now I have a meeting at 4:30!? Well, guess I have to go to it.” Stacy thought, a small ripple of annoyance momentarily disrupting the quiet hum of her workspace. Strangely, almost at a blink of an eye, 4:30 pm arrived. A production issue—a sudden, insistent intrusion—landed squarely on her screen, a cascade of red alerts demanding immediate attention. It felt like an unwelcome guest barging into her carefully curated sanctuary, a jarring disruption to the rhythm of her work. The screen glowed with an urgent intensity, pulling her from the comfortable isolation she’d cultivated. A wave of stress washed over her—not a violent one, but a tightening in her chest, a quickening of her pulse. It was a brief, sharp reminder that even within the walls of her self-imposed solitude, she wasn’t entirely immune to the demands of the world. The problem demanded her focus, pulling her away from the quiet satisfaction she’d found in the click-clack-clank of her keyboard, and thrusting her back into a world where someone—or something—needed her.”

‘First off, I’d like to welcome everyone here!’ The CEO of the company boomed on the voice call, a performance of fake happiness that came so readily with being a C-suite executive in corporate America. Stacy rolled her eyes, a small, almost imperceptible movement that spoke volumes. ‘I have made this emergency town hall only to share good news—that we made record profits this quarter! I just wanted to say thank you for all of your hard work!’ The words felt hollow, a carefully constructed facade designed to mask the relentless pressure and the casual disregard for those actually doing the work. Stacy’s fingers tightened around her coffee mug, a small act of rebellion against the manufactured cheerfulness. It was a familiar dance—a constant performance of gratitude, a silent acknowledgment that her efforts were valued only insofar as they contributed to someone else’s success. A prickle of resentment ran through her, a cold satisfaction in knowing that beneath the veneer of appreciation lay a ruthless calculation. She could practically taste the bitterness, a metallic tang on her tongue as she listened to the CEO’s empty praise.

‘Now I wanted to make this announcement to say that while most of you have been working hard, and again, I thank you,’ the CEO droned on the voice call. ‘Unfortunately, mid-year bonuses will not be given out, given the context of the economy and our shareholders. While you all are important, our shareholders hold the ultimate value, which pays the company forward!’ “Are you fucking kidding me!?” a male coworker shouted. ‘This company doesn’t care about us at all!’ another voice followed, laced with bitterness and a palpable sense of betrayal. Strangely, Stacy loved hearing it—the sound of that raw frustration, the blunt admission that this company didn’t care. It was a validation of her own carefully constructed worldview. Her values and her emotions were irrelevant; the business didn’t care, and fate had never cared for her. Why should it be any different? A small, almost imperceptible smile touched her lips as she listened. It wasn’t a pleasant smile—more like a recognition of a truth, a dark satisfaction in acknowledging the cold, unyielding logic of it all. The CEO’s words were simply a reflection of reality—a brutal, honest assessment devoid of sentimentality. She felt a strange sense of kinship with the angry voices on the line, a shared understanding born not of empathy, but of a similar lack of expectation.

Fate then decided to make Stacy’s nipples hard, an unconscious ripple of sensation that bloomed beneath her shirt. Unconsciously, she began rolling her hips slowly, a subtle counterpoint to the sterile drone of the meeting. Thanks to the returning boredom and nearing the end of the emergency town hall, her mind began to wander—to a mistress, an uncaring figure who would absorb her needs, desires, and ambitions. A woman architecting and training her downfall, a deliberate descent into submission, where she would be at the mercy of her will. The thought was both terrifying and exquisitely thrilling. A sudden zap, a violent want that ripped through her body, startled her back to the present. Simultaneously, a notification flashed on her screen – a message from her chat app: “Meeting ended.” “Maybe mistress needed to send that to me after all,” Stacy thought, a cold smile playing on her lips. The sensation of the hard nipples intensified, a physical reminder of the control she craved and the power she was willing to relinquish. It wasn’t a desire for affection—it was an acknowledgment of the fundamental imbalance, a yearning to be broken and remade in someone else’s image.
Finally it’s time to leave for the weekend boredom followed Stacy. But other thoughts came upon Stacy like a dream as she was leaving for the train. Her mind imagined she was in something of a game where there was a forest and dominants chase after their pray, anything was possible but most likely the dominants being the predators they were would be raping the prey. Sure the prey could defend themselves but always whether it was mental or physical the prey was always weaker. Weaker than the dominants the alphas that ran the game itself.

Finally, it was time for the weekend, but even with the respite, boredom still clung to Stacy like a persistent shadow. Yet, her thoughts of subjection and prey were now a slow-rising tide, creeping into the corners of her mind with insidious ease. “What will Fate decide?” she thought to herself, a brittle smile twisting her lips – a smile born not of pleasure, but of desperate calculation. “Will I surrender to my mistress, or will I be effective in fighting it?” The questions tumbled over each other, a frantic scramble for control against the rising current of her desires. “How many orgasms will I have tonight, if any?” The thought was almost a plea, a desperate attempt to anchor herself in the tangible, to wrest some semblance of agency from the encroaching darkness. It wasn’t a yearning for connection—it was an exploration of limits, a morbid curiosity about the depths she might reach. The smile widened slightly, a chilling acknowledgment that she was already adrift, caught in the undertow of her own desires.

As she thought about such things, daydreaming would often be violently ripped back to reality by the smallest intrusion – a brush against her breasts, the screech of brakes signaling an approaching train. These seemingly insignificant moments were fuel to her frustration, a desperate craving for something now. She wanted it now – the sharp ache of her nipples hardening, a phantom sensation that mirrored the desires swirling within her. Then, it happened again. A passenger brushed against her nipples by accident, a fleeting contact that ignited the fantasy with explosive force. The world seemed to sharpen, colors intensified, and a wave of heat flooded her skin. It wasn’t just the physical sensation; it was the return of the imagined world, the deliberate control and submission she’d been craving. The passenger’s hand lingered a fraction too long, a subtle pressure that sent a jolt through her system. “How much longer?” she whispered to herself, the question laced with a dangerous blend of anticipation and self-loathing.

Finally, she reached the station to disembark and began to walk home with a hurried pace. The journey was short, but Stacy sped along the sidewalks, driven by an almost frantic need to escape into her own space. She entered through the front door, stepping into a house that was outwardly unremarkable – a modest dwelling adorned with the usual decorative clichés: “Live, Laugh and Love” framed above the fireplace, a scattering of inspirational quotes on the walls. Yet, something felt subtly wrong, a discordant note beneath the surface. Near the basement in the hallway, the colors shifted abruptly – deep blues and blacks bled into the walls, swallowing the brighter hues. It felt like a deliberate barrier, an unspoken warning: this space was forbidden, a place of shadows and secrets. The air grew noticeably colder as she approached, carrying with it the faint scent of dust and something else…something metallic and unsettling. It wasn’t a place she consciously visited, not often anyway, but the very structure of her home seemed to pulse with a hidden darkness, a silent invitation—or perhaps a threat—to descend.

To help herself settle into the desired state of mind, Stacy moved to the master bedroom. With deliberate movements, she began to loosen and remove her clothes – a simple act that revealed the results of countless hours spent honing her body. Her workout routine had sculpted a lean physique, highlighting the subtle curves of her form and revealing the strength beneath. Her breasts were full and firm, a testament to her dedication – a tangible reminder of her self-reliance. A small smile touched her lips as she gazed at herself in the mirror, a quiet acknowledgment of her own power. After years spent guarding herself against unwanted advances, protecting her boundaries with a fierce resolve, she decided to offer herself a moment of quiet appreciation. It wasn’t about seeking validation from others; it was an act of self-love, a reclaiming of her body as a sanctuary—a reward for the resilience she’d cultivated. The soft light of the bedroom seemed to accentuate her skin, highlighting the delicate lines and curves that were uniquely hers.

After admiring the sculpted form she’d painstakingly crafted, Stacy moved to her preparations. She slid into the stirrups, the cool leather a familiar embrace against her skin. They weren’t merely functional; they were an extension of her dedication, a subtle affirmation of the strength she’d built. The stirrups molded to her legs, enhancing the definition of her calves and thighs – a visual testament to her athleticism, her capacity for endurance. Then came the steel corset, its cool, unyielding surface a promise of constraint and heightened sensation. As she fastened the first clasp, a shiver traced its way down her spine. The metal pressed against her skin with cool precision, a deliberate embrace that amplified every nerve ending. Her breath hitched slightly as the corset cinched her waist, a subtle rebellion against its embrace—a silent acknowledgment of the power she was yielding and the control she sought to explore. It wasn’t just a physical preparation; it was a ritual, a focused channeling of her desires, a deliberate honing of her body into a vessel of sensation for the encounter to come. Her muscles tensed, anticipating the exquisite pressure, the delicious surrender that awaited her.”

The voice, a disembodied murmur that resonated not just in her ears but deep within her mind, echoed through the house. “Come one and come all to place fate in the wheel of the night.” It was a voice she knew, yet it felt alien, residing in the shadowed recesses of her consciousness – a whisper from the basement. A chilling certainty settled within her; it was time. Like a puppet tethered to unseen strings, Stacy found herself compelled to descend. The vibrant hues of the house seemed to leach away, replaced by deepening shadows as she prepared for her descent into the unknown. A primal dread coiled in her stomach, yet it was intertwined with a strange, unsettling excitement. The promise of the void – the potential for both horror and revelation – stirred a dark fascination within her. The anticipation of what awaited, the surrender to this predetermined path, both terrified and exhilarated her in equal measure.

As she descended into the basement’s embrace, the voice echoed again, a spectral invitation: “Welcome. Before your place your fate in the wheel of the night. You must prepare yourself.” Darkness enveloped her, a suffocating void that swallowed all sight. Yet, within this absence of light, Stacy possessed an uncanny awareness of her surroundings. It wasn’t sight that guided her, but a preternatural knowing, a sense of the space etched into her very being – a landscape she had mentally mapped in anticipation. Fate, it seemed, had orchestrated this moment, and Stacy surrendered to its design. In the heart of the room, a tripod stood sentinel, its sturdy form a silent promise of support. With deliberate precision, she positioned herself beneath it, the metal cool against her skin. As she initiated its ascent, the tripod’s base remained grounded, yet its central column soared upwards, defying gravity. It climbed relentlessly, a silent, mechanical prayer against the oppressive darkness, until it brushed against the unseen ceiling – a height of eight feet that transported her far beyond the mundane world, into a realm veiled in shadow and anticipation.”

With deliberate movements, Stacy began to apply her estim patches – sleek, discreet devices designed to translate electrical impulses into sensations of exquisite pleasure and sharp torment. She had meticulously tested this system in prior sessions, arriving at the understanding that its randomness was both a blessing and a challenge. It offered a tantalizing unpredictability, a constant push and pull between sensation and its opposite – a mirror of the tug-of-war within her own mind. The unknown was a key element, a way to transcend the familiar landscapes of boredom and fate. Carefully placing the pads on her breasts, along her thighs, across her stomach, and on her arms, she connected them to the estim machine. A soft hum filled the basement as she set the parameters to a random cycle, a silent invitation to surrender to the unpredictable dance of sensation that awaited her.

Hurry now, the wheel will start to churn soon,” the voice urged. With a decisive movement, Stacy inserted the remote vibrator and anal plug, embracing the anticipation of the impending sensations. The moment the vibrator found its target, a rush of sensation erupted – a warm, insistent pulsing that resonated deep within her. Drips of fluid followed, a testament to the immediate awakening of her body. “Already!?” Stacy thought, a thrill of both surprise and surrender coursing through her. The anal plug, a familiar instrument in this ritual, hummed with its own distinct vibration, sending strange, tingling waves through her core. A whisper escaped her lips, “No…” – a fleeting moment of defiance, a reminder that even in this state of surrender, the ability to choose one’s stance remained. Standing tall, she acknowledged her agency, a silent affirmation of her own fate within this orchestrated experience.”

The final element of preparation involved the suspension cuffs – sleek, polished restraints designed to fully immobilize her. Each cuff was connected to an electric lock, a silent promise of both confinement and control. Stacy paid little heed to the safety mechanisms, knowing that their automatic release was a contingency she wouldn’t need. This was a deliberate embrace of vulnerability, a complete relinquishing of physical autonomy. Before securing her hands within the cuffs, she connected them to a cable that snaked towards a humming machine – an automatic system poised to support her weight. A moment of stillness hung in the air, a pause before the inevitable shift in power dynamics. This was the threshold – the point of no return where Stacy fully surrendered to the orchestrated experience, embracing the anticipation of being suspended, utterly at the mercy of fate and her design.

“The wheel has spun!” the voice called, a triumphant declaration of fate fulfilled. “No, don’t do this, Stacy!” A desperate surge of instinct propelled her forward, but it was too late. As she reached for the stairs, a palpable resistance seized her, a silent confirmation of her impending surrender. The vibrant colors she’d glimpsed upstairs – a fleeting illusion of salvation – dissolved into the stark reality of her confinement. Stacy’s muscles strained, but they were no match for the machine’s relentless pull. A slow, agonizing crack echoed as the device yielded, dragging her body across the floor. In less than a minute, she was suspended in the air, a helpless marionette at the mercy of fate. “Let us begin,” the mistress’s voice purred, a chilling pronouncement that resonated deep within Stacy’s mind. The finality of her surrender settled upon her, a chilling acceptance of the role she had willingly embraced.

Any takers to put the slave in her place?” Mistress’s voice echoed, a challenge that hung heavy in the air. “I will,” a man’s voice responded, resonant and commanding. He stepped forward – tall, with a chiseled chin, dark green eyes that seemed to pierce through her, and olive skin that hinted at a hidden strength. “No, please it will be too much!” Stacy’s voice cracked, laced with a desperate plea. “Quiet you,” the man’s voice snapped back, sharp and dismissive. A searing crack of electricity lanced across her stomach, a brutal reminder of her powerlessness. “Know your place, whore!” he screamed, the words laced with venom and contempt. Stacy’s scream tore from her throat, a raw, primal sound of defiance and terror. I can’t surrender, never! she thought, the words a desperate mantra against the encroaching darkness. Why did I do this to succumb to my desires, to become less than even my own imagination conceived? The weight of her decision, the stark reality of her vulnerability, crashed down on her, leaving her gasping for breath and questioning the very nature of her desires.

“Good slaves are quiet!” the man’s voice hissed, and the cruel words were immediately followed by another searing lash. This time, the electricity arced across her breasts, a shocking wave that instantly made her body slick with a warm, unwelcome leak. The sensation was a brutal, undeniable reminder of her vulnerability. Her head dropped, and the frantic voice within her mind – No, you can still fight this! – began to fade, overwhelmed by the escalating pain. Each subsequent whip of electricity was a fresh assault, a relentless barrage that stripped away her resistance until thought itself became a distant memory. It was a brutal, visceral lesson: the cost of freedom demanded submission. To be truly free, she was being forced to accept this very act of enslavement. Her consciousness began to fray at the edges, a reluctant surrender as her unconscious mind started to accept this agonizing reality.”

“Soon, the last vestiges of her conscious resistance dissolved, and a primal surge erupted within her. Without a thought, a wave of pure sensation crashed through her, a visceral release born from the escalating pain. It was a raw, untamed response, a testament to the depths of her surrender. “Good slaves don’t cum unless asked!” Mistress’s voice dripped with a cruel satisfaction. The man, his own need seemingly fulfilled by the culmination of Stacy’s release, stepped back, a dark satisfaction in his eyes. He harbored no affection for her; the thought of inflicting further violation, of shattering her spirit through rape, was a perverse pleasure. “Now we need to break you, but I will do that.” Mistress’s voice was a cold promise, her presence radiating a chilling anticipation of the torment to come. The shift in power was stark – the physical act had merely been a prelude to a deeper, more insidious form of domination.

All the sudden, the searing pain that had consumed her seemed to recede, replaced by a strange detachment. She hung suspended in the darkness, a gentle sway mimicking a phantom breeze, yet the underlying ache of her torment remained. A chilling realization settled within her: this exquisite agony was inextricably linked to the release she craved. Her body, a traitorous vessel, yearned for the very pain that stole her breath. A primal dissonance raged within – every nerve screamed in protest, yet a darker part of her, a twisted echo of her desires, craved the exquisite torment. It was a horrifying paradox, a descent into a perverse acceptance where suffering became a pathway to a distorted form of pleasure. The mind, a cruel puppeteer, had seized control, demanding this agonizing return to the very pain she desperately wished to escape.

A million fragmented thoughts ran through her head, like long threads ensnaring her senses. She felt adrift, lost in a haze of pain and disorientation, unsure of where she was or what awaited her. The lingering sting of the whippings blurred the edges of reality, leaving only a primal awareness that this torment was far from over. Then, a new wave of sensation crashed over her as the vibrators surged to full power, their relentless shaking sending tremors through every fiber of her being. A scattering of ribbons lay around her, a stark symbol of her captivity. Fear, sharp and visceral, propelled her to reach for the single ribbon within her grasp – a desperate, instinctive act in this terrifying, controlled space.”

“I see you are already trembling, but don’t think I will let you cum,” Mistress’s voice sliced through the haze, dragging Stacy back to a brutal awareness. The power dynamic solidified – she was once again a slave, her fate entirely in Mistress’s hands. The vibrator surged to full power, a relentless assault that amplified Stacy’s trembling body into a violent tremor. “OH GOD, PLEASE MISTRESS, LET ME CUM!” Stacy’s scream was raw, a desperate plea tearing from her throat as her body convulsed like an earthquake. Her eyes rolled back, lost in a maelstrom of sensation and surrender.

Mistress’s response was cold, unwavering. “Nope.” Instead of the release Stacy craved, a searing shock ripped through her, a cruel reminder of the pain she had endured. It wasn’t enough to bring her to the precipice of orgasm; instead, it was a calculated torment, designed to amplify the echoes of her past suffering. The shock served as a brutal reinforcement of her powerlessness, leaving Stacy gasping and broken, trapped in a cycle of pain and submission.

After the shocks subsided, automatically, Mistress turned on the vibrators at the lowest settings. Stacy, instead of feeling pain, felt a burgeoning pleasure bloom within her. “Mmm…” she murmured, her body hanging limp like a piece of meat, utterly at Mistress’s mercy. “What do you say?” Mistress’s voice was a low purr, laced with a hint of challenge. “Thank you, Mistress,” Stacy retorted, the words a mixture of submission and burgeoning sensation.

Soon, the stimulation intensified, but this time it was purely pleasurable. The vibrators danced around her pussy lips and ass, each pulse a wave of exquisite sensation that rippled through her body. Pleasure became a chaotic dance within her, an uncontrollable surge of feeling that erupted from her core, sending shivers and moans escaping her lips. She was a vessel, a canvas for Mistress’s desires, and the boundaries between pain and pleasure blurred into a single, intoxicating experience. The dance continued, a wild, unrestrained exploration of her body’s newfound responsiveness, leaving Stacy lost in a haze of sensation and surrender.

“I think you’ve learned your lesson,” Mistress said, her voice a low, knowing purr. Stacy’s breath hitched, and tears welled in her eyes, tracing paths down her cheeks. “I love it when you use me,” she confessed, the words a raw admission of her newfound submission.

“Rest assured,” Mistress replied, her tone unwavering, “I make precautions for the time of you hanging there. Your pain, your pleasure, your edging, and your orgasms will be left to fate itself.” The words hung in the air, a chilling pronouncement of control and surrender. Stacy’s fate was no longer in her own hands; it was a delicate dance with Mistress, a willing embrace of the unpredictable path that lay ahead. The line between dominance and submission had blurred, leaving Stacy adrift in a world where pleasure and pain were inextricably intertwined, all orchestrated by the enigmatic will of her Mistress.

The next few hours dissolved into a dizzying blur. Orgasms crashed over Stacy in waves, each one leaving her feeling emptied and strangely adrift. The white heat of release seemed to consume her, a stark contrast to the lingering ache of the previous sensations. The edging, a tantalizing tease of pain and pleasure, only intensified the confusion. Each surge of sensation made the prospect of a full release both more alluring and more agonizing, blurring the lines between ecstasy and torment.

A full shock ripped through her, a searing reminder of her powerlessness. “I must cum,” she thought, the desperate need clawing at her consciousness, yet her body stubbornly refused to respond. It was a battle of wills, a conflict between the mind’s desire and the body’s submission. In that moment of utter vulnerability, Stacy was stripped bare, reduced to a vessel for her Mistress’s desires, lost in the intoxicating chaos of her own fragmented self.

Soon after, as if the final note of a beautiful, yet unsettling melody had faded, the machine fell silent. The toys stilled, and the shocks subsided, leaving behind a lingering ache that resonated deep within Stacy’s bones. Sleep crept in like a comforting embrace, pulling her into a realm of fragmented dreams and uncertain realities. She lay there, dazed and confused, adrift in a sea of sensations, feeling lost like a child separated from their home. The boundaries between pleasure and pain had blurred, leaving her identity fractured and uncertain. In the quiet darkness, Stacy was a ghost of herself, a testament to the raw power of submission and the enduring allure of surrender.