Pegging for landing.

This is not sex.
This is not kink.
This is not play.

This is me reclaiming my say.

I say when,
I say where,
I say how.

I say:

"On your knees and elbows.
Hands down, flat
Knees wide.
Face low."

I move behind him and I see it.

The tattoo down his spine.
Me, naked.
A serpent wrapped around my body.
Two daughters at my feet.
Inked from the base of his neck to the top of his crack.

He offers himself beneath me.
I don't caress.
I don't stroke.
I don't rim.
I look at the woman needled down his back.

I only undress from my waist down.
I undress
not for seduction
not for show.
I undress for access to myself, for myself.
I slide and anchor my strapless tool into me.
Slow.

I give him direction to move.
To lube my tool.

I know I have permission, he gave it.
I know he's trained, he maintains.
I know this moment
of hesitation,
of doubt,
of fear.

Will he flinch?
Will he move?
Will he collapse?
Will he hold me like he promised,
or must I hold him too?
Am I safe?

And so,
I act.
I place.
I trust.
I thrust.

My hips meet his body.
I impale him and he holds.

I go in.
Because for years, I didn’t get to choose what went in.

Not just cock.
Guilt.
Obligation.
Silence.
Sacrifice.
Stories I never wrote.

Wanted pregnancies a man installed and forced me to terminate.
Unwanted penetration I tolerated to avoid more bruises.
Turning the other cheek to avoid more nights in hospitals.

Now my body decides.
My hips speak.
I thrust.
I trust.

Breath and sound escape his throat.
I don’t answer.
He gasps.
I don’t soften.
He shudders.
I don’t pause.
He grips the sheets.
I don’t ease up.
He cries into the pillow.
I keep going.
Because his body is what he gave to me, to receive my pain,
because I accepted,
because this act is mine.
I keep him placed.
I keep him open.
I keep him receiving me, because
he can’t move while I’m inside him.
He can’t move until I’m done.

This isn’t about his surrender.
It’s about my return.

I get out of my head.
I stay in my body.
That’s the point.

I don’t ask permission.
I penetrate.
I take.
I restore.

I don’t become a man.
I don't perform.
I don't pretend.

When I fuck him, I face my inked image on his backbone.

My image reflected back at me.
I penetrate facing the woman I am.
Wife, mother, whole and complete.

Not the young wife violated by betrayal, weeks after my first marriage:

Locked cabinets in the home we’d just moved into.
Shoe cartons filled with video cassettes.
Video cassettes filled with him fucking other women in our bed.

But the woman who ends the cycle.
With her hips.
With her breath.
With her entry.

I fuck.
Because I never got to fuck.
Because for years, fucking was what happened to me.

I allow the woman who
got fucked,
got violated,
got betrayed,
to end the cycle.

I thrust until my legs shake.
Until my breath heaves.

Each movement of my hips writes a sentence:
I am here.
I choose.
I take.
I rule.

I understand.
He didn’t just give me obedience.
He gave me a destination.
He made space for my return.
He allows me to use him like a runway to land.

To feel what power does in a woman’s body.
To feel ownership in my hips.
To get complete.

He offered this body.
He opened to receive what was stolen from me.
He obeys.
He stays.
He takes it, not as punishment but as proof:
of his loyalty,
of his devotion,
of his willingness to be the place I come back to myself.

I watch the tattoo.
Each time I push forward, I see her.
Me.
Etched in ink,
one hand cupping my breast,
the other behind my head, elbow extended up.
Children at my feet.

And I know:

This man built a shrine on his body,
for me to reclaim what was taken.
Not in metaphor. Not in performance.
In ink.
In pain.
In flesh.
In devotion.

And I take.
I don’t ask.
I don’t check in.
I peg until I’m done.

Not for cruelty,
but to reset my system.

Orgasm is not his reward.

It’s my decision.

I may orgasm. I may not.
He will climax. He will not.
I choose if he comes in the moment.

If I say come, his hand extracts.
He supplies
his semen,
his power,
his obedience,
If I don’t, he stays full.

When I have him spill,
it's not because I allowed it.
It’s because I command it.

Because I take what he’s offered,
without shame,
without consideration for his wants or needs.

Because that restores my say.
My play.
My joy.

His climax is not reward.
It is reinforcement.
It’s how I imprint him to me.

Each time I command him to release,
his body learns I chose the moment of his ejaculation.

He doesn’t come when he wants or needs.
He comes when I say so.

That pattern installs.
Through repetition.
Through obedience.

It's not symbolic.
It's not agreement.
It’s nervous system training.

His climax, by my say, conditions him.

With each repetition
His body transfers authority to me.
His body transfers,
his climax,
his ejaculation to my command.

Each time, more of his say transfers to me.

That’s how my need to protect and control stabilises.
Not by managing.
By owning.

And when I own him,
I stop scanning.
I stop bracing.
I stop protecting.

Because he no longer asks.
He offers unconditionally.
He waits.
Because when release is no longer his choice,
waiting is all he can do.

His mind is still.
His body obeys my instruction.

That’s how I know:
The circuit is closed.
The charge contained.
The current grounded.

My body can finally exhale.
My body can finally go quiet.
My body can finally breathe.

The thrust of my hips restore the boundary that was broken.
My thrust reclaims my body that was hijacked.

My force doesn’t wreck him.
It re-installs me.

When my hips no longer need to declare anything.
I thrust one last time.
Hold.
Breathe.
Withdraw.

When I finish, I pull out.
I don’t soothe.
I don’t collapse.
I don’t explain.
I don't clean.

I remove my tool from my body and place it on my image on his spine.

I don’t soothe him.
I don’t collapse beside him.
I don’t ask how he feels.

I walk away.
I look in the mirror.
I don’t see pain.
I don’t see recovery.
I see the woman who took back:
her dignity,
her agency,
her authority.

I look in the mirror.
I don’t see a survivor.
I don’t see a victim.
I see a woman who entered the world that once entered her,
and left her mark.

Because I entered a man,
on my terms,
in my timing,
with my force,
and I did not disappear.

Because when I’m inside him,
I’m not below anymore.
I’m not pleading.
I’m not enduring.
I’m not surviving.

I’m directing.
I’m taking.
I’m anchoring myself where I once vanished.

That’s the work.

Not softness.
Not understanding.
Placement.

And it ends the moment I stand.

What pegging does.

It doesn’t repair the past.
It installs the present.

In motion.
In muscle.
In me.

Healing happens when the nervous system reorganises.

Pegging penetrates through the body.
Not through ideas.
Not through talk.
Not through soothing.
Through sensation.

It flips his system into submission.
It lets mine regulate
by claiming.

When I lead,
penetration releases oxytocin, endorphins, dopamine.
When I lead,
His system obeys.
And in that act, my system calms.

Because there is
no more guessing.
No more defending.
No more flinching.

Just hips in action.
Decisive.
Final,
like law,
like judgement,
like correction.

This isn’t therapy.

This isn’t spiritual.
This is physical correction.
By action, not discussion.

For too long, I stayed alert to survive.
Watched every movement.
Read every silence.
Held my body like a weapon.
Made sure nothing got in that I didn’t permit.

But vigilance isn’t power.
It’s the residue of invasion.

So I peg.
Not to perform.
To place myself.
To place my agency.
To place my authority.
To place my system in the lead.

This is not therapy.
This is completion.

This is nervous system correction written in language the body understands.
This is sexual, but it's not sex.
This is intimate, but it's not soft
This is what reversal looks like
when the woman is not afraid of her own power,
And when the man is strong enough
to hold her restoration inside his body
without needing it to be about him.

When do I do this?

When I spin.
When I rage.
When I carry the weight of everyone’s needs.
The weight of my own obedience.

When I remember I’m not here to perform.
When I feel empty.
When I need to land.
When he forgets.

Before I speak on stage.
Before a business meeting.
Before my cycle.
After my cycle.

When I need reminding of myself.
When I want proof of my power.
When I feel too much.
When my hips ache with all the things they’ve not yet said.

I signal for him to present himself.
I may place lube in front of him.
Or I may say:

“I need support.
I need to land.
I need to return.
I need to know.
I don’t know what I want.”

Any of these tells him:
To undress.
To expose.
To present himself in silence.

And so,
I act.
I place.
I trust.
I thrust.

Not to release tension,
But to reset truth.

He keeps the tool clean.
He keeps it charged.
He keeps it close.
He keeps himself ready.

It’s not my job to prepare.
It’s his job to maintain.

And sometimes,
When I walk into the room and he’s there:
Knees wide.
Elbows down.
Hands flat.
Spine exposed.

I don’t even have to follow through.

Sometimes,
I don’t undress.
I don’t insert.
I don’t enter.

Sometimes just seeing him like that:
Open.
Offered.
Exposed in readiness,
is enough.

Enough for my body to remember:
I command.
I choose
I hold the key.

And I continue my day.