Kneel
Graham’s body smoothly came to attention at the sound of the bell.
He hadn’t been sure how this class would go—a seminar on kneeling? It seemed on-topic enough for a BDSM convention, but he just wasn’t sure how much there was to say about kneeling. But the class description made it sound like a sort of meditation session, and that seemed interesting. Restful, even, in the middle of a hectic weekend of violent sexplay and shopping for toys. He’d downloaded the audio recording linked from the online class description when he reserved a spot in the class, and had even managed to listen to it every day for the two weeks before the convention. The teacher, Ms Peel, had a voice on the recording that was pleasant, and though he tended to zone out in the middle, he thought that was probably normal, sitting motionless for 15 minutes doing nothing.
By now it was all habit: lay out the thin soft yoga mat he’d bought to kneel on, settle his body into a comfortable position, turn on the recording—well, here in class he wasn’t using the recording. But just like in the recording, Ms Peel struck a large metal bowl—come to think of it, it was probably the same one—which made a rich ringing sound, and his body instinctively straightened into the position he’d learned and become comfortable with over the past days of practice.
“Very good,” said the teacher. Graham felt a flush of warmth at her praise, but was even more proud of himself for keeping motionless while he enjoyed the sensation. “I see most of you have been listening to the recording I linked, or else you had some sort of kneeling practice of your own already. You’re such good students!”
Graham’s eyes fluttered and his breath caught at that. Normally at this point his eyes would be closed, listening to her voice on the recording, but he wasn’t sure if he was supposed to do that here. But he was trying not to move, not to turn his head, which made it difficult to watch her.
“And you can just close your eyes now, if you haven’t already, and focus on my voice.”
With relief, Graham let his eyes close.
“And as so many of you are already so used to doing, begin to bring the mind’s attention to the body, starting by attending to the feet and toes. And as you follow my lead, you may lose track of the exact words, but my voice will always be with you, guiding you, and it’s all right to feel proud of how well you follow...”
Graham spaced out at this point, as he usually did at home, until the sequence of bell chimes that indicated the kneeling meditation was done. He opened his eyes slowly, feeling like he was waking from a dream.
And he felt incredible. His eyes immediately went to Ms Peel, standing on her dais at the front of the room, and he suddenly realized that this position—kneeling, in front of her—perfectly encapsulated how he felt about her. How he wanted to feel about her. Attentive. Obedient. Submissive. Subservient. Kneeling for her was natural, and right, and Graham felt incredibly proud of himself for realizing this.
She was still talking. “... and you might find that those ideas disappear like a dream as you come entirely awake now, feeling great! And we’re all back here, right now. Here we are.”
Graham blinked, trying to remember what he had just been thinking, but he couldn’t hold onto it. He stood slowly, feeling the stiffness in his joints from kneeling for so long, but mostly he felt great—happy, and rested, and calm, and like he’d just done something difficult that he’d really been looking forward to, and had done it perfectly. Checking his phone, he was surprised to find that the class had been an entire hour. Where had the time gone?
“I know that all of you have places to go right now, but I’ll be leading short sessions every morning at 8 for the rest of the weekend if you feel the need for more. It’s on the schedule. I hope I’ll see you soon!” With that, she left the room.
Graham was dreaming of kneeling.
Somehow the physical position of his body was hard to hold onto, in the dream, as if his body wasn’t entirely there or quite the usual shape, or he wasn’t entirely in it. But the thing he could imagine, know, perfectly, was the relationship between himself and Ms Peel: he was kneeling. For her.
She stood over him, looking down. He looked up at her, attentive. Obedient. Submissive. Subservient. Kneeling for her was natural, and right, and Graham felt incredibly proud of himself for realizing this.
“Is there something you want to tell me?” she asked, with an amused, approving tone.
He started to speak...
... and then his alarm went off, and Graham woke up, trying to hold onto the shreds of the dream and failing. He felt happy, though, as if he’d done something difficult that he’d really been looking forward to, and had done it perfectly.
The morning kneeling meditation was peaceful, and brief. After his confusion in the kneeling class the day before, Graham wasn’t sure if he’d know afterwards how long he’d been kneeling while the teacher spoke quietly to them all—and sure enough, he had no real sense of time when the ending chimes sounded—but his phone said only 15 minutes, like the recordings he’d been listening to the past couple of weeks. Afterwards he again had the feeling of having just forgotten something, maybe something he had meant to say to her; but whatever it was, it was gone, and he wound up just meeting her eyes when she looked over, and smiling shyly, and then looking down. Something about looking down instead of meeting her eyes felt interesting, a little exciting, like he was declaring something with his body language that he didn’t realize he was saying. Something that was daring and exciting to say, but felt right.
Graham was dreaming of kneeling.
The surface under his knees felt different than in class, or in practice at home, because he was kneeling in a carpeted hallway. There was something hypnotic and entrancing about the pattern on the carpet in the hallway, something infinitely absorbing, which he had never consciously noticed before, even though he’d been staying in the hotel all weekend. He wondered how he had failed to notice this carpet pattern. How he hadn’t just fallen into it whenever he walked down the hall, staring and losing his train of thought and forgetting whatever he’d been about to do entirely, until someone came along to give him direction. Someone with a very pleasant but firm voice.
He was kneeling in front of a door, the door to one of the rooms.
The door opened, and there she stood in front of him.
She smiled, an amused, approving smile. “Good boy,” she said, and a explosion of excited pride burst in his chest. “Is there something you want to tell me?”
There so was. Graham wasn’t even sure what it was he was about to say, but he knew with complete certainty that he must say it. He opened his mouth to let this important declaration, whatever it was, come out.
His alarm went off, and Graham woke up, trying to hold onto the shreds of the dream and failing. He felt a sense of anticipation, though, as if he was about to do something he was very much looking forward to.
The morning kneeling meditation was peaceful, and brief. Graham was briefly tempted to stay after the meditation and try to speak with Ms Peel—he had it in the back of his head that there was something important he’d meant to tell her about—but he hurried off afterwards instead, remembering there was a thing he’d wanted to get to that didn’t leave him a lot of time to dally.
He was almost there before he realized he wasn’t sure exactly what it was he was heading to. But there was a clear room number in his mind—one of the guest rooms, not function space.
There was a line outside the door. People tucked against the wall, out of the way of passersby, forming a line from the doorway, quietly kneeling. He recognized some of them from the kneeling class. Something about that seemed right somehow.
Graham knelt in the next place in line. Looked down at the carpet. There was something hypnotic about the pattern on the carpet in the hallway, something infinitely absorbing, which he had never consciously noticed before, even though he’d been staying in the hotel all weekend. Something that just made all his thoughts... still.
Somehow, with no transition that he noticed, Ms Peel was standing in front of him. Above him. As he knelt for her, waiting. She might have stood in front of each person in line, but Graham had no memory of it. All he knew was that it was his turn.
She smiled. “Good boy,” she said. “Is there something you want to tell me?”