I call it sensual torture.  He had me lie on the bed and cover my eyes with a towel.  He told me to be silent and to lie perfectly still.  He turned off the lights and sat on the bedside.  He was silent as well.

He had a square of silk and slid it over my body again and again.  He would flick it across my nipples, between my thighs, across the back of my knees, the bottom of my feet.

I was so aroused, but had to obey his injunctions for silence and stillness.  My skin was on fire and had goose bumps at the same time.  I wanted more, wanted hands and mouth, wanted sex  and orgasms.  

But I couldn’t ask, wasn’t allowed to say a word. 

He kept caressing and sliding and flicking that piece of smooth and sensuous cloth.  He made me want, made me need but didn’t stop, didn’t change what he was doing.

It went on for a lifetime, an eternity, a night.  My breathing was ragged and very loud in the quiet room.  My mind was a jumble of pleas and desires, and then, suddenly my mind went still as well.  Instead of wanting more, I started to accept what was.  Instead of longing for the next slide of cloth, I reveled in what was happening now, this moment was all that mattered, this sensation was all because it was what he desired to give.

I enjoyed, I was receptive to his whim, I no longer wanted or expected anything.

I believe it was the first time I understood submission.