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I read a few posts, and have been doing some research, all in the name of becoming an 'expert' at submission (laughable, really, but true).
The things I have read have made me realize that I've set down no true expectations for a relationship with a Dominant. Consider it my contract with myself.
Rules
I need explicit rules and boundaries for most situations, and in terms of my daily life, not rules that only surround play or our time together. There should be a set of guidelines for general behavior, but I do best with what I can clearly define as black or white. Else, I will manipulate or take advantage.
Reason
Each rule laid out must have logic behind it, or some concept that I can grasp to understand what I am supposed to learn. It's not enough to tell me that I am not permitted to do XYZ, I need to be aware of the reason why you do not wish me to do XYZ.
Consequence
If I break said rule, I need swift and fitting punishment. I've said this before, but it bears repeating...using pain is not a punishment. Neglect, lectures, clearly showing that I am a disappointment to you, these are punishments.
Progress Markers
This must have milestones, some indication of the progress I'm making as a submissive. This learning may not have anything to do with each of us as individuals, or of us as a D/s relationship, but there must be learning involved or I will stagnate. It doesn't even have to involve this lifestyle at all. Assignments, opportunities to receive 'extra credit', let me shine. Let me earn your continued attention.
Accountability
Learning to react in order to avoid punishment is a first tentative step. This is the next, the tests that ensure I am committing to what I've learned, that I don't disregard my lessons simply due to absence or time or proximity.
This is a story of a girl. An adventurous, experimental girl. The girl joined a group, and met some people. And two of these people asked the girl's permission to play with her, in public, at a dungeon.
The girl spent hours getting prepared. She was so nervous to be naked, or nearly so, in front of strangers. Not just physically naked, but more...emotionally, or something even more than that. Stripped down to some bare essence of herself.
She drove to the dungeon, all by herself. She does everything by herself, this girl. Not a smoker, but smoking all the way, nerves nerves nerves.
She called her friend, one of the two people who planned to play with her, and her friend was already there. This friend, we will call her "F".
The other friend, a man, we will call "W".
F is a submissive, but likes the thought of dominating women. W has wanted to play with the girl since he first met her. There is a tiny spark of something there, but nothing that would be acted on, since W already has a submissive/wife.
But the girl is looking forward to playing with W, and with F. She finds in both of them a mentor type of relationship, and respects and admires them.
Back at the dungeon, F is already there, waiting for the girl and W.
The girl arrives, and there is much tenderness and touching between them. Not sexually, just that F is a very loving person, and shows it in her actions. The girl is far more standoffish, but blooms like a flower in the light of F's attention.
W and his sub arrive, and the dungeon is starting to show signs of life from weekend regulars.
F and W ask the girl if she is ready. She's not...it's so soon, it's still light outside, her other friends aren't yet there, so many excuses.
She is eager, but not one hundred percent sure she is ready. F and W reassure the girl, reminding her that this is what she wanted, but she can say no at any time.
The girl agrees, and moves to the area designated, and where W is setting up his tools. She stands there, one hand on her hip, a foot cocked out, shifting from foot to foot, wondering what she is supposed to do. The girl is trying to remain cool, to look as if this is something that happens every day, but her hesitation and shyness are starting to show through to even strangers.
Eyes are on her, she feels them. F approaches the girl and asks if she would prefer to disrobe in private. The girl blushes upon realizing that they were waiting for her to remove her clothing, and stumbles in her attempt to do so quickly. Laughing at herself, she kicks off her heels, takes off her clothes...leaving only her panties.
W takes her hand, and leads her to the bench. F and W coach her into position on the bench, helping her to get settled most comfortably, and W reminds her of the safe signals. Raising off the bench will slow him down, and putting a hand up will stop him. He will watch for her signals during F's turn at the wheel.
The girl is aware of her nakedness, her breasts against a towel, the firmness of the bench between her thighs and under her knees.
She is grateful to be wearing panties, still, her one last protection from the world.
Then it all begins. First, soft soft soft. A feathery chamois, rubbed all over. F whispers that this is to sensitize her skin, prepare her nerve endings.
Slowly they build up, moving on to harsher and harsher tools. The girl prides herself that her hand never raises, her back lifts only slightly to cause him to slow his movements.
The girl is taken down from the bench, and placed there again, but this time on her back. She can feel the heat on her back and ass sinking into the towel, and the scratchy fabric pulls at her already bruising flesh. The girl is smiling, happy in her place. F and W question her, is she ready to continue, can she bear it on her breasts.
The girl is pleased to be asked, but wants not to be, wants to just be taken. But she understands the protocol, and agrees to whatever they ask of her.
It begins again.
Soon her nipples feel as if they are on fire, hot and hard and swollen.
F presses her hand against the girl's vulva, while W continues to strike her torso.
There is so much to take in, so many places to escape to in the girl's mind. She teases them out, hiding bits of herself here and there, but never able to go there totally. That space she seeks stays vacant.
But there is a moment, between the girl and W. He is holding her wrist, moving her arm above her head, and there is a shock of eye contact and a shiver of something more. It's intoxicating, that too brief moment. Over before it began, really. But the girl sees, and realizes, oh, it could be....it should be....it will be. Not with W, but with one similar. And to wait for that is worth it.
The girl endures the rest, enjoys the rest, and all too soon it's over. This time she scurries to the restroom to dress, now ready to remove herself from the eyes of others, and be in her private moment without witness.
Afterwards, secure and strong in her fabric skin of protection, the girl is struck, as she always is, at the peacefulness she feels after being used. The girl knows that 'used' is a poor term for a scene without emotion, without cruelty, without sexuality, but has no other word to describe it.
The girl knows what she is. Who she is. And what she is for.
I drove over the water this afternoon. The wind had picked up...a storm in the Gulf. The waves weren't crashing, they were undulating. It was hypnotic. They seemed oily and menacing. I found myself looking everywhere but there, at that water, and I saw a hawk on a lightpost gutting a fish or smaller bird. Vicious.
I'm seeing omens, hearing voices. I can't always make them out, so easily confused as a woman in pain or passion. It's in my head and it won't leak out anymore. Normally I find an outlet, but it's all swelling up on the inside, making me bloated with doubt and fear.
Even in my sleep, it comes. I dream of slithering things in my ears and hair, sly and sibilant. Hisses. I wake shuddering from the feel of fresh saliva on my skin.
I know the source. I know it all. I know the deliciousness of this feeling once it has been relieved. In the thick of it, though, I dread it. Loathe it. Twist it and harbor it. It's the cold black cloak I wear when I need you.
I want a white corset
Straight-backed and resolute
Deceptively virginal
Kneeling behind an almost open door
Stricken by fear and desire
Blindfolded against my judgments
My nose ears mouth envelop you
I am pliant, open, soft
Bend me, hold me, bind me
It bubbles up slowly
A quiet resistance, a gradual push
But soon I am biting hitting
screaming flinging my heat
and tears of rage and want and need
and giving in
Over the edge, I'm taken
In ways I never understood
Dark blooms on paleness
Drops of red litter the virgin
Stained with color and belonging
Until no longer sure where corset ends and I begin.
Take my dreams and take my mind
That were masterless as wind;
And "Master!" I shall say to you
Since you never asked me to.
From 'Because' by Sarah Teasdale
I've been feeling myself into a corner. I tried to turn it off, made myself weak-kneed with passion over the thought of hands and eyes. It wasn't enough, I couldn't disengage.
I can't continue to just feel, it's disarming. What am I without my walls?
They are back. In force. With their friends and extended family. It will take an army now.
You may. But I didn't.
Effortless denial. Willing. Eager.
I'm living in my skin today, not my head. It's liberating.
Arrogantly, I told him that I read of orgasm denial with disbelief. How would they find out? Why not lie? Hope hope hope that he heard the challenge, the unspoken request. Knowing that he did, but won't be led so easily.
Gritting my teeth and waiting my turn.
I don't go so willingly into this, he knows. I steer, or try. He waits me out like a cat.
If to become a slave is to renounce liberty, then does that not include renouncing the duties and morality of humanity? Not due to dissension but because conforming is no longer necessary.
The implication of slavery is that the individual who claims title is responsible for the well-being and care of that slave, as well as their actions and words. The slave merely follows instruction in return for being kept.
Am I too traditional? Too historical? I don't see much of that description in contemporary pseudo-sexual M/s behaviors.
“I squealed as he struck me for the second time, and then I heard myself shrieking as I had never done before, with my nails compulsively clawing and releasing the edge of the mattress, while he kept beating me unmercifully with the slow, steady, relentless rhythm which was the same as when he was taking possession of me; and my shrieks grew worse, he shifted his arm which lay across my shoulders and buried his hand in the nape of my neck and held my held down and held my face crushed against the bed, half choking my cries.”
My need is not for pain. My need is not for humiliation. My need is to have my emotions and mental state controlled to a point that I don’t struggle, or revel in the struggle. What I find most often is this costume of a lifestyle, or a latent infantilism in the games and desires professed by these men claiming to be Doms.
Yet I continue to bide my time here, surrounded by those who slip on a skin of submissiveness or domination with no thought of anything but sexual deviancy. And while I’m continually disappointed in the intelligence and sensibilities here, I have found a strange sense of family…a friendliness rarely encountered elsewhere. This, in and of itself, is enough to stay, enough to consider real-life acquaintanceships, enough to play for the sake of playing.
“My grandmother had a saying, ‘There are people who have to be forced to their happiness’; and every time he dominated me against my will and forced me to accept the pain he inflicted on me, and not to fight it, he made me feel angry and ashamed.
Yet, above and beyond these emotions, he filled me with a deep extraordinary happiness and satisfaction which I had never known before. It was like the commonplace experience of taking off in a plane in bad weather, flying first into a sheet of thick clouds and then rising still higher into the clear sky and brilliant sunshine. When he possessed me so fiercely that he drove me to the brink of darkness, he gave me the ecstasy of knowing that I had reached the one thing, the only thing, I had ever wanted.
When he was about to take me, I was yearning for him to shatter me and to break me down, and perhaps this was the reason why I made difficulties. Perhaps I put up this defence in order to provoke him to shatter and to break. But at the same time, my resistance had another, a different meaning. I was also longing to shatter him and to break him down. Each time we lay together, I was hoping to achieve it and to drag him into my darkness, and each time, when I regained my senses and opened my eyes and found him clad in his dressing gown and moving about the room quite unconcernedly, I felt a fury of disappointment which, in turn, added depth to my delicious feeling of defeat.”
Not long ago, I met a man on the website, and agreed to meet him for drinks. His experience and wisdom went straight to my head, and I felt compelled to obey him. When we met, he spoke of his youth, and a fight, and showed me his ear – a piece of which was missing. I was disturbed and enthralled. It confused me, placed me out of step. When he dropped me off, he asked for my panties. I capitulated immediately, absolutely no hesitation, and it simply reinforced this craving I have for a man who is strong enough to control me.
This is the first in a series of three, part of an essay I wrote at the request of someone here.
“He did not throw me and he did not push me. He took me around the waist and by the shoulders and bent me backwards. I was terrified I would fall, but when I touched a surface of cold stone beneath me the surprise of encountering the stone relieved me of my fear. He laid me down; a hard edge cut into the backs of my knees while my feet were on the ground, and as soon as I was fully extended, he was inside me. The whole was achieved in a matter of about four seconds. It was speedy and casual and effortless and at the same time seemingly impossible, like any virtuoso performance. And of course, nobody could have called it a rape; there was no struggle and no violence and no menace and no overcoming of a resistance. I was neither willing nor unwilling. I was nothing at all. I had not been given the choice to be either. I had not even been aware that there was a stone bench behind me when we had halted in our walk and he had broken off speaking in mid-sentence.
Prostrated as I was on the chill, hard surface, I felt utterly helpless. I had never before felt so helpless in my life. And he went on, as casually as he had started, neither embracing me nor holding me down. I closed my eyes. For all I knew he had his hands in his pockets. Then I hoped he would continue and was afraid he might stop, and almost immediately after this my hopes and fears were resolved and I felt like weeping with relief, but no tears came and I was shaken by dry sobs. I was still struggling for breath when he ceased.
He took me by the wrists and raised me into a sitting position. I kept my eyes closed. He slapped me lightly on the cheek and said, ‘You are my little girl,’ and then: ‘Come on, get up now.’“
When I first encountered a man with dominant tendencies, it was a soft man. A man with effeminate characteristics. A man who I thought an easy conquest. This man was not at all this way. He taught me more about myself, about the desires I harbored, than any other man before or since. I don’t even know if he considered himself a Dom, or if he just inherently enjoyed the physical acts that come with domination.
After this man, I looked for others with similar traits. Unfortunately, dominant thoughts seem to come packaged in misogynistic packages, which never seem to be true or lasting. But here and there the rare man seems to find me, and I discover again my true nature.
Some 16th century philosopher (Grotius) once questioned that if an individual can alienate his liberty and make him(her)self the slave of a master, why could not a whole people do the same and make itself subject to a king?
I read this question and of course immediately applied it to this lifestyle. And while showering (all best thoughts are had in water, have you noticed?), I had this grand vision of a new society founded on BDSM, with an elected King.
While it's amusing to play around with this concept in my head, it makes me wonder, with the climate of today's politics, if we aren't ripe for some regression. Would I pledge my loyalty to a fiefdom? I think certainly, if the laws of feudalism were adjusted to make the lordship based on worth rather than birth. Privilege begets greed.
Pardon my academia, I'm over-caffeinated.
"Many men are deeply moved by the mere semblance of suffering in a woman; they take the look of pain for a sign of constancy or of love." -Honore de Balzac
I recently had the opportunity to attend an event during which scenes were enacted. A confusing group of four, then a young woman with a man clearly not her own...all of it seemed a bit...dull.
Then a man and a woman entered the stage. He started slowly, working up in both instrument and intensity. At the end, the crack of the whip stung my ears. As I watched her face, watched her manic and uncontrollable laughter...her strange hand movements as if to grab this moment out of the air, a friend leaned over to whisper that it was almost disturbing to watch. I nodded, half aware of what my friend was saying, I was so intent on watching the woman cross from reality to this place she'd gone.
Her head was slightly tilted to one side, and her eyes were cut in the same direction, looking at a point in space just over our heads. Her gaze did not waver, no matter how sharp the blow or how strong her reaction. I could see the welts forming.
My friend's words finally sank in, and it occurred to me that yes, it was disturbing, but only because I so wanted to be on the receiving end of that whip.
