S was waiting for me on the sidewalk; he didn't speak as I approached him, merely turning on his heel and setting off for the adjoining parking lot. I stayed one stride behind him, stretching my legs to keep up, my brain on overdrive.
What the hell was I doing??
He stopped to unlock the passenger side of a fairly nice, new car- at least if he turned out to be a psycho axe murderer, I'd go out in style- and after motioning me into the seat, reached around and clipped my seat belt into place. He had yet to actually touch me, and I was somewhat surprised (and, honestly, a bit disappointed.. those hands were extremely distracting). He slid into the driver's seat, started the car, and looked at me expectantly. I had no clue what to do, or what he was waiting for. When I thought I would explode from the uncertainty, he finally took pity on me.
You need to tell me where you live.
Oh. Oops. I gave him my address, and he told me to be prepared to give him specific directions once we'd arrived in town. The ride home from the club was vastly different from the last time; S first gave me permission to speak freely with the understanding that he expected complete honesty from me, then proceeded to ask seemingly unending questions. By the time we reached my town he was fully versed on my family, upbringing, schooling, work, hobbies, friends, plans for the future, favorite music, books, movies.. whatever made me tick, basically. The questions about my sexual experience were pointed and uncomfortable, and he did not let me hedge or otherwise avoid any answers.
Before taking me home he had me show him the stables I rode at, my church, the train station I used to get into the city, my high school, where I worked, and my martial arts school. His reasoning was he needed to be able to pick me up from any of these places as he pleased, and he had me write down the addresses for each. As we pulled up in front of my house he shut the car off and got out; I watched him walk around to my door and it suddenly dawned on me that I knew next to nothing about this man that I had just given full access to my life. The thought made me feel a bit panicked, and I shook a little as I stepped out of the car and found myself nose-to-chest with him.
Are you cold?
No.
I could feel his eyes on me, and suddenly felt like I was going to cry. I bit the inside of my cheek to keep the tears at bay, cursing myself for behaving like a baby. He stepped impossibly closer, and brushed his fingertips over my cheek before hooking underneath my chin and raising my head. My heart thudded at the contact, and my breath hitched.
Shall I tell you what's wrong?
I nodded, not trusting my voice.
You're overwhelmed and frightened. You had no idea when you went out tonight what a turn your life would take, and you weren't prepared for it. You feel like things are moving too fast for you to process, and you don't like being off-balance like that. You're probably also realizing that I have elicited an awful lot of information out of you, while you haven't the first clue about me, and I could be a serial killer or rapist and you have just made the biggest mistake of your life.
I had to give him credit- he was good.
All these are very valid thoughts and feelings. Don't ever be ashamed of anything you experience internally- and don't ever be afraid to share those things with me. Okay?
Okay.
He smiled, a genuine one that lit up his eyes even in the dim streetlight. I assure you, I am not a serial killer or rapist. Of course, I could be lying- but I would point out that R is your friend, and he would never have allowed you to be alone with me if he suspected I had such intentions. I am going to give you my business card, with both my work and home information, and you may feel free to do whatever investigation you like between now and the next time we meet. I will also answer any questions you have about me at that point.
His fingertips shifted back to my cheek, gently stroking the skin, and his eyes took on a slightly darker edge; I could feel my body responding not only to his touch, but also that darkness.
I believe that, despite your uncertainty and fear, there's a part of you that is quite aroused right now. Am I correct?
When I hesitated, his hand quickly moved to encircle my throat, putting the slightest pressure on my pulse points but not interfering with my breathing, and I whimpered in spite of myself.
When I ask you a question, I expect a prompt, honest reply. We'll try this again. Am I correct?
Yes.
Still?
Yes.
It was true; even with his hand around my throat- perhaps especially with his hand around my throat- I could feel myself becoming even more wet, heat spreading through my body, my skin turning pink. He chuckled quietly and moved his hand back to cup my cheek.
I wish we had more time tonight, but you need to go to bed so I will simply outline my expectations for you for now, and we'll explore that other aspect later. Will you remember everything I tell you?
I replied in the affirmative, and he listed his rules. I was to maintain my attendance and performance at school; if my grades slipped or absences increased, there would be consequences. I was also to keep up my extracurricular activities, because in his opinion there was nothing worse than a stupid, inactive submissive. I was to call him each evening at 9pm promptly with a description of two outfits in my wardrobe, and he would pick which I would wear the next day. I was to be in bed by 9:30 on weekdays. He expected me to be respectful and polite in my dealings with my family and any other authority figures. I was to take pictures of my room and locker at school to show him, both of which must be kept clean and organized at all times- a cluttered environment is a sign of a cluttered mind, and he wanted me clear-headed and alert. No drugs, no alcohol, no smoking.
Above all else, I was not to touch myself except for essential hygiene purposes.
He had me repeat everything back to him to make sure I understood, and complimented me when I did so successfully.
Now, most importantly, we need to get you started with addressing me properly. My first name will be acceptable with your friends and family, but otherwise you will have to show that you know your place. What do you think you will be most comfortable with for now?
I'd actually already thought about that- R had warned me it would come- so the answer was ready even before he finished asking the question.
Sir.
He nodded. That's acceptable. From now on, unless you are in a situation where it would be detrimental to either of us, you will address me as sir.
Yes, sir.
Very good. You've done enough for now; it's well past your bedtime.
He walked me to the door but did not make any motions to either kiss or hug me goodnight. As promised, he gave me one of his business cards, and once I was safely inside the house I heard him walk back to the car and drive off. I crept noiselessly up to my room, undressed, and fell asleep almost as soon as I crawled into bed.
I didn't feel or look any different the next day; the whole thing might have been an alcohol-fueled dream if it weren't for the crisp white business card that sat on top of the stereo next to my bed. I picked it up at read it for the first time; apparently I had made the acquaintance of the head of fund development for several of the more prominent state colleges in the city. The home address was in one of the nicer, pricier suburbs.
Eep.
I went through my day in a fog, and at 9pm on the dot called the number on the card, still halfway expecting it to turn out to be an elaborate joke. S answered on the first ring with my name and a compliment for being on-time. He asked me about my day, and if we hadn't ended the conversation with him picking my clothes out for school the next day it would have seemed like a normal conversation between two friends.
I followed his directions exactingly that week, and on Thursday we made arrangements for me to spend the night with him Saturday. I don't recall much from the next two days, other than the fact that I was so distracted at the stable on Saturday that I almost sent myself to the hospital several times. At 4:30 exactly, as I was turning the last of the horses out, I saw his car pull into the lot; I grabbed the overnight bag I had packed, waved to the barn manager, and walked over to where he was waiting by the passenger door, apprehension and anticipation knotting in my stomach.
He smiled and took my bag from me, motioning me into the car, but I hesitated, suddenly realizing I'd been at the stable for the day and probably both looked and smelled like it.
He tapped his finger on the top of the door. I doubt you've suddenly had a change of heart; tell me what's wrong.
I gestured to my clothes, and especially my boots. I don't want to mess up your car.
He laughed. I appreciate your concern, but you'll notice that I already planned for that.
I glanced into the car, finally noticing the sheet covering both the seat and floorboard, and felt a bit embarrassed. Sorry, sir.
S shook his head. Don't be; it shows you have concern for me, which is a good sign. Now get in the car.
He put my seatbelt on for me, put my bag in the trunk, and we headed out to his house in the suburbs.
His house was nice, if minimalist; I took my boots off before going inside, and he gave me a tour through most of it. I was, of course, quite taken with the library, and he promised I could spend as much time there as I wished. He led me back to the den, and told me my training would begin now.
I would have the opportunity over the years to see S at a number of different fundraising events, interacting with college presidents, politicians, donors, and various other VIPs; he was very good at his job. He was charming, funny, amazingly smart- especially when it came to current events- and always projected an aura of quiet confidence. When we were out in public together, he was as cordial, polite, and respectful as possible.
Something shifted in him when he took on his role as dominant, something subtle and difficult to explain, something primal. At first I was reminded of what people said about me when I was angry, but I quickly realized it wasn't the same thing. There was nothing cruel or frightening about S (unless he wanted to be); it was more animalistic, irresistable, and I was unbelievably attracted by it. From the moment he claimed me, I could never refuse him anything he asked- I wasn't always successful at completing my tasks, but I would try. My 'safe word' has always been jabberwocky, but it never crossed my mind to use it with him.
So when he sat on the sofa and told me to undress, the shudder than ran through me was an equal mixture of anxiety and arousal. I folded each article of clothing before dropping it to the floor beside me, and was soon naked in front of him. His face was unreadable as he stood and walked around me, inspecting me as one might a prize animal. When he finally stopped in front of me again, I made my first mistake- focusing my eyes on his.
I don't know where the cat o'nine tails had come from, but it landed on my hip with a sudden sting that brought tears to my eyes and a startled yelp from my throat.
A slave's eyes remain down at all times, unless they have been given permission otherwise. Do you understand?
Yes, sir.
When you come into this house, I expect you to undress completely. You will remain so unless I give you clothing to wear. Do you understand?
Yes, sir.
His fingers suddenly pressed into a week-old cut on my thigh, and I winced. We hadn't discussed this particular secret of mine, but there was no mistaking the ragged line for what it was.
There will be no more of this. Your body is mine now, and will bear only the marks that I give it. Do you understand?
Yes, sir.
And for the next six years, there wasn't.
Who do you belong to?
The words felt oddly familiar, comfortable, coming from my lips. I belong to you, sir.
Good girl.
********
If there was a basic training for subs, I was run through the express version that night. R had not been wrong; the consequences for breaking S's rules were swift, and despite knowing that I had no previous sub experience, he did not go easy on me. When I was finally allowed to shower and go to bed (I slept on a nest of blankets at the foot of S's mattress), I was exhausted and sore both physically and emotionally.
Yet I was also exhilarated. No punishment I received that night- nor on any subsequent one- was given out of cruelty or anger. It was behavior modification at its most simplistic, and my subconscious accepted and appreciated it. And lest you assume that it was all about punishment, I would add that S was also incredibly kind and attentive, and it didn't take long before he developed a genuine affection and reciprocal need for me. He was as quick to compliment me as punish me, and I soon learned to take tremendous pride and pleasure in the simple words "Good girl."
I learned a great deal over the years I spent with S. The names and uses of each tool. How to take pleasure in fulfilling other people's needs, rather than having my own fulfilled. How to identify a boundary that needed to be pushed past, and one that didn't.
I was a natural at going into subspace; it may have had something to do with my martial arts training, or the fact that anyone around horses as much as I was is frequently injured and needs to keep calm no matter how much it hurt. I also read a study a few years ago that redheaded women have the highest pain tolerance of any other color/gender combination (it's the trade-off for our extended healing time and immediate, colorful bruising). Whatever the reason, I dropped fast and hard, and as a result was very accepting of physical punishments. This would come in useful in later years.
Subs in our circle of friends/acquaintances were not allowed to become complacent; we were expected to keep current on local and world events, learn to form and express opinions on social/political/economic topics, and find some area of expertise to pursue. For the most part, academics took priority over almost everything, but most of the subs (and doms) I knew were also very artistic, and conversations could last well into the night over anything from Greek poetry to Impressionist painting to the latest opera or horror film. S was a voracious reader, which meant I maintained a stack of books that he insisted I read so that we could discuss them. He always encouraged me to pursue my theater work, and I accidentally (happily) discovered a significant talent for massage that became quite in demand.
We were also expected to communicate openly and honestly at all times with our doms; if there was something we didn't like (or something we liked), we expressed it. I wasn't crazy about too-tight nipple clamps or certain types of vibrators, and had a singular dislike for water sports and humiliation involving most bodily fluids, but I had a great affinity for, among other things, corsets, cat o'nine tails, hot wax, and being tied up.
I'm not going to waste time outlining every detail of my training, but I would be remiss if I didn't include a couple of the more significant turning points for me.
S and I did not have sex- or any kind of sexual contact- for months after my training started, and not for my lack of trying (remember that I was not allowed to pleasure myself until he gave me permission; also remember I was a very hormonal teenage girl). He was waiting for some clue from me that I was fully ready to take the relationship to that point, and despite all my verbal assurances he would have none of it- nor would he let me see him naked, and the curiosity was killing me. One night, as I lay shackled spread-eagle to his bed, panting and sweaty and covered in whip marks, I begged him to take pity on me. He stood over me, turning a riding crop over in his hand, fully dressed as always, and shrugged.
I could fuck you, and it would be pleasurable for both of us, but it would be meaningless. I won't have such a thing.
I believe I called him every name in the book that night.
The breaking point came not long before I left for college. S had picked me up from a competition, and I knew immediately that he was in a foul mood. I've already said that his punishments were never done out of cruelty or anger, and the few times I'd seen him in such a mood he hadn't laid a hand on me specifically for that reason.
He came close that night.
I attempted to engage him in conversation, and he ignored me. After a while I became petulant and needy, for no other reason than I wanted his attention, and he left the room. Now, of *course* the thing to do would have been to apologize for my behavior and talk about what I was feeling/thinking- perhaps even find out what he was upset about. But I was still hesitant to share such things with him, and, hurt, I did the one thing I knew would get a response from him. I went to the kitchen, got a soda and some cookies, went to the library, picked out one of his favorite books, and sat in his chair to read- and wait.
Any one of these things would have gotten me at least a lashing. Combined, there was no telling what might happen.
I'd finished a chapter, along with most of the cookies and soda, when he walked in the room. It took a tremendous effort on my part to not look up, though it was probably lucky for me that I didn't, as that would have pushed things too far.
His voice was dark and unrecognizable when he finally spoke, and for a moment I regretted my actions.
Go lay down on the bed. Right now.
I had one last opportunity to change what would happen- I could have taken any path but the one that I did, and things probably would have turned out differently.
I have always been thankful for what I chose.
I couldn't help myself; he'd hurt my feelings, and I wasn't going to give in that easily. So I moved slowly, deliberately; setting the book on the table, making sure my cup was on a coaster, taking one last bite of cookie before meandering up the stairs.
It did not escape my notice, as I passed him in the doorway, that his eyes were shut, his hands balled into fists, and he was making a concerted effort to regulate his breathing.
I lay on the bed and listened to him moving around downstairs, and for the first time I was very uncertain. He came into the room, wordlessly gathering supplies and laying them out on the nightstand, and I still had a chance to stop him (I always had the chance, of course- I could use my safe word any time), but something in me told me to wait.
The last thing he put on the table was a very large, very sharp-looking knife.
Within moments I was blindfolded and secured to the bed. The hours that followed are a blur; though nothing was used that I hadn't already experienced, each blow had an edge to it that it hadn't before. Although tears were steadily running down my cheeks, my wrists and ankles were rubbed raw from straining at the ties, and my throat burned from holding in the screams, I refused to give in.
I took everything he was giving me, and refused to break.
When the knife touched my skin, I froze. The razor edge traced patterns across my body, and I held my breath, waiting for the sting as it cut into my skin, but it wouldn't come. Over and over, first the edge, then the point, and I began to shake as the anticipation became overwhelming.
I gasped as the tip pressed against the pulse point on my neck, but still said nothing.
Do you want me to stop?
The point pressed a hair's breath deeper.
No, sir.
Of course not. Would you like me to tell you why?
I could almost imagine the smallest drop of blood forming on the tip of the knife where it bit into my skin.
Yes, sir.
Because you hate having to be responsible, be in control, be the perfect little girl everyone thinks you are, all the time. So you need this. And no matter what I do to you, you'll take it, and you'll enjoy it, and you will keep asking for more.
The mattress dipped as he shifted on it, but the knife didn't move at all.
But you have got to learn to stop topping from the bottom. I can't take control if you won't communicate with me. And I will not be manipulated by you.
I felt the fingers of his other hand then, barely brushing the inside of my thigh for the first time, and I didn't know how to respond.
Tell me what you need.
My mouth moved, but I couldn't form words. On a- pardon the pun- razor's edge between fear and arousal, I had no clue how to ask for what I needed. His fingers came closer to the top of my thigh; at the same time the knife twisted just a little bit. I knew he was testing me, and what scared me the most was not passing.
Tell. Me.
Please..
One word, a start, and the fingers moved closer, the pressure on the knife may have relaxed slightly.. but he still waited.
And something snapped inside me.
There's a reason why one of the most powerful and well-known bibles verses is also the shortest; John 11:35 simply states 'Jesus wept.' There is an immense difference between crying as an expression of physical, spiritual, or emotional pain/loss, and truly weeping. John describes Jesus as being 'deeply moved in his spirit,' and that is the heart of the difference.
Something snapped and I wept that night, for the first time ever; great, wracking sobs that came from the absolute depths of my soul.
S yanked the ties free and the blindfold off, pulling me into his lap, rocking me like a child, stroking my hair and telling me over and over again what a good girl I was. Eventually he laid me back down on the bed, curling his body around mine, holding me as I fell asleep.
When I awoke the next morning, still cradled in his arms, everything had changed.
I understood, finally, what true submission felt like, and it was like the weight of a thousand years was lifted off of me. It sounds almost trite to say that in the surrender is freedom, but it's the closest that most of us can come to describing it. After S and I had finished our morning routine we sat in the screened-in porch- him on the couch, me on the floor with my head on his knee as he gently stroked my hair- and talked for hours about the night before, and there was no hesitancy in my answers to his questions; I laid my heart as bare for him as my body had always been, and the world didn't come to the cataclysmic end I'd always feared it would if I allowed myself to be that vulnerable.
Interestingly, it turns out that butterknives left in the freezer for a few hours feel just like regular, sharp knives, especially when someone is blindfolded.
I received my first collar that night, a thick piece of black leather with a heavy buckle and ring, and my secondary training began.
What the hell was I doing??
He stopped to unlock the passenger side of a fairly nice, new car- at least if he turned out to be a psycho axe murderer, I'd go out in style- and after motioning me into the seat, reached around and clipped my seat belt into place. He had yet to actually touch me, and I was somewhat surprised (and, honestly, a bit disappointed.. those hands were extremely distracting). He slid into the driver's seat, started the car, and looked at me expectantly. I had no clue what to do, or what he was waiting for. When I thought I would explode from the uncertainty, he finally took pity on me.
You need to tell me where you live.
Oh. Oops. I gave him my address, and he told me to be prepared to give him specific directions once we'd arrived in town. The ride home from the club was vastly different from the last time; S first gave me permission to speak freely with the understanding that he expected complete honesty from me, then proceeded to ask seemingly unending questions. By the time we reached my town he was fully versed on my family, upbringing, schooling, work, hobbies, friends, plans for the future, favorite music, books, movies.. whatever made me tick, basically. The questions about my sexual experience were pointed and uncomfortable, and he did not let me hedge or otherwise avoid any answers.
Before taking me home he had me show him the stables I rode at, my church, the train station I used to get into the city, my high school, where I worked, and my martial arts school. His reasoning was he needed to be able to pick me up from any of these places as he pleased, and he had me write down the addresses for each. As we pulled up in front of my house he shut the car off and got out; I watched him walk around to my door and it suddenly dawned on me that I knew next to nothing about this man that I had just given full access to my life. The thought made me feel a bit panicked, and I shook a little as I stepped out of the car and found myself nose-to-chest with him.
Are you cold?
No.
I could feel his eyes on me, and suddenly felt like I was going to cry. I bit the inside of my cheek to keep the tears at bay, cursing myself for behaving like a baby. He stepped impossibly closer, and brushed his fingertips over my cheek before hooking underneath my chin and raising my head. My heart thudded at the contact, and my breath hitched.
Shall I tell you what's wrong?
I nodded, not trusting my voice.
You're overwhelmed and frightened. You had no idea when you went out tonight what a turn your life would take, and you weren't prepared for it. You feel like things are moving too fast for you to process, and you don't like being off-balance like that. You're probably also realizing that I have elicited an awful lot of information out of you, while you haven't the first clue about me, and I could be a serial killer or rapist and you have just made the biggest mistake of your life.
I had to give him credit- he was good.
All these are very valid thoughts and feelings. Don't ever be ashamed of anything you experience internally- and don't ever be afraid to share those things with me. Okay?
Okay.
He smiled, a genuine one that lit up his eyes even in the dim streetlight. I assure you, I am not a serial killer or rapist. Of course, I could be lying- but I would point out that R is your friend, and he would never have allowed you to be alone with me if he suspected I had such intentions. I am going to give you my business card, with both my work and home information, and you may feel free to do whatever investigation you like between now and the next time we meet. I will also answer any questions you have about me at that point.
His fingertips shifted back to my cheek, gently stroking the skin, and his eyes took on a slightly darker edge; I could feel my body responding not only to his touch, but also that darkness.
I believe that, despite your uncertainty and fear, there's a part of you that is quite aroused right now. Am I correct?
When I hesitated, his hand quickly moved to encircle my throat, putting the slightest pressure on my pulse points but not interfering with my breathing, and I whimpered in spite of myself.
When I ask you a question, I expect a prompt, honest reply. We'll try this again. Am I correct?
Yes.
Still?
Yes.
It was true; even with his hand around my throat- perhaps especially with his hand around my throat- I could feel myself becoming even more wet, heat spreading through my body, my skin turning pink. He chuckled quietly and moved his hand back to cup my cheek.
I wish we had more time tonight, but you need to go to bed so I will simply outline my expectations for you for now, and we'll explore that other aspect later. Will you remember everything I tell you?
I replied in the affirmative, and he listed his rules. I was to maintain my attendance and performance at school; if my grades slipped or absences increased, there would be consequences. I was also to keep up my extracurricular activities, because in his opinion there was nothing worse than a stupid, inactive submissive. I was to call him each evening at 9pm promptly with a description of two outfits in my wardrobe, and he would pick which I would wear the next day. I was to be in bed by 9:30 on weekdays. He expected me to be respectful and polite in my dealings with my family and any other authority figures. I was to take pictures of my room and locker at school to show him, both of which must be kept clean and organized at all times- a cluttered environment is a sign of a cluttered mind, and he wanted me clear-headed and alert. No drugs, no alcohol, no smoking.
Above all else, I was not to touch myself except for essential hygiene purposes.
He had me repeat everything back to him to make sure I understood, and complimented me when I did so successfully.
Now, most importantly, we need to get you started with addressing me properly. My first name will be acceptable with your friends and family, but otherwise you will have to show that you know your place. What do you think you will be most comfortable with for now?
I'd actually already thought about that- R had warned me it would come- so the answer was ready even before he finished asking the question.
Sir.
He nodded. That's acceptable. From now on, unless you are in a situation where it would be detrimental to either of us, you will address me as sir.
Yes, sir.
Very good. You've done enough for now; it's well past your bedtime.
He walked me to the door but did not make any motions to either kiss or hug me goodnight. As promised, he gave me one of his business cards, and once I was safely inside the house I heard him walk back to the car and drive off. I crept noiselessly up to my room, undressed, and fell asleep almost as soon as I crawled into bed.
I didn't feel or look any different the next day; the whole thing might have been an alcohol-fueled dream if it weren't for the crisp white business card that sat on top of the stereo next to my bed. I picked it up at read it for the first time; apparently I had made the acquaintance of the head of fund development for several of the more prominent state colleges in the city. The home address was in one of the nicer, pricier suburbs.
Eep.
I went through my day in a fog, and at 9pm on the dot called the number on the card, still halfway expecting it to turn out to be an elaborate joke. S answered on the first ring with my name and a compliment for being on-time. He asked me about my day, and if we hadn't ended the conversation with him picking my clothes out for school the next day it would have seemed like a normal conversation between two friends.
I followed his directions exactingly that week, and on Thursday we made arrangements for me to spend the night with him Saturday. I don't recall much from the next two days, other than the fact that I was so distracted at the stable on Saturday that I almost sent myself to the hospital several times. At 4:30 exactly, as I was turning the last of the horses out, I saw his car pull into the lot; I grabbed the overnight bag I had packed, waved to the barn manager, and walked over to where he was waiting by the passenger door, apprehension and anticipation knotting in my stomach.
He smiled and took my bag from me, motioning me into the car, but I hesitated, suddenly realizing I'd been at the stable for the day and probably both looked and smelled like it.
He tapped his finger on the top of the door. I doubt you've suddenly had a change of heart; tell me what's wrong.
I gestured to my clothes, and especially my boots. I don't want to mess up your car.
He laughed. I appreciate your concern, but you'll notice that I already planned for that.
I glanced into the car, finally noticing the sheet covering both the seat and floorboard, and felt a bit embarrassed. Sorry, sir.
S shook his head. Don't be; it shows you have concern for me, which is a good sign. Now get in the car.
He put my seatbelt on for me, put my bag in the trunk, and we headed out to his house in the suburbs.
His house was nice, if minimalist; I took my boots off before going inside, and he gave me a tour through most of it. I was, of course, quite taken with the library, and he promised I could spend as much time there as I wished. He led me back to the den, and told me my training would begin now.
I would have the opportunity over the years to see S at a number of different fundraising events, interacting with college presidents, politicians, donors, and various other VIPs; he was very good at his job. He was charming, funny, amazingly smart- especially when it came to current events- and always projected an aura of quiet confidence. When we were out in public together, he was as cordial, polite, and respectful as possible.
Something shifted in him when he took on his role as dominant, something subtle and difficult to explain, something primal. At first I was reminded of what people said about me when I was angry, but I quickly realized it wasn't the same thing. There was nothing cruel or frightening about S (unless he wanted to be); it was more animalistic, irresistable, and I was unbelievably attracted by it. From the moment he claimed me, I could never refuse him anything he asked- I wasn't always successful at completing my tasks, but I would try. My 'safe word' has always been jabberwocky, but it never crossed my mind to use it with him.
So when he sat on the sofa and told me to undress, the shudder than ran through me was an equal mixture of anxiety and arousal. I folded each article of clothing before dropping it to the floor beside me, and was soon naked in front of him. His face was unreadable as he stood and walked around me, inspecting me as one might a prize animal. When he finally stopped in front of me again, I made my first mistake- focusing my eyes on his.
I don't know where the cat o'nine tails had come from, but it landed on my hip with a sudden sting that brought tears to my eyes and a startled yelp from my throat.
A slave's eyes remain down at all times, unless they have been given permission otherwise. Do you understand?
Yes, sir.
When you come into this house, I expect you to undress completely. You will remain so unless I give you clothing to wear. Do you understand?
Yes, sir.
His fingers suddenly pressed into a week-old cut on my thigh, and I winced. We hadn't discussed this particular secret of mine, but there was no mistaking the ragged line for what it was.
There will be no more of this. Your body is mine now, and will bear only the marks that I give it. Do you understand?
Yes, sir.
And for the next six years, there wasn't.
Who do you belong to?
The words felt oddly familiar, comfortable, coming from my lips. I belong to you, sir.
Good girl.
********
If there was a basic training for subs, I was run through the express version that night. R had not been wrong; the consequences for breaking S's rules were swift, and despite knowing that I had no previous sub experience, he did not go easy on me. When I was finally allowed to shower and go to bed (I slept on a nest of blankets at the foot of S's mattress), I was exhausted and sore both physically and emotionally.
Yet I was also exhilarated. No punishment I received that night- nor on any subsequent one- was given out of cruelty or anger. It was behavior modification at its most simplistic, and my subconscious accepted and appreciated it. And lest you assume that it was all about punishment, I would add that S was also incredibly kind and attentive, and it didn't take long before he developed a genuine affection and reciprocal need for me. He was as quick to compliment me as punish me, and I soon learned to take tremendous pride and pleasure in the simple words "Good girl."
I learned a great deal over the years I spent with S. The names and uses of each tool. How to take pleasure in fulfilling other people's needs, rather than having my own fulfilled. How to identify a boundary that needed to be pushed past, and one that didn't.
I was a natural at going into subspace; it may have had something to do with my martial arts training, or the fact that anyone around horses as much as I was is frequently injured and needs to keep calm no matter how much it hurt. I also read a study a few years ago that redheaded women have the highest pain tolerance of any other color/gender combination (it's the trade-off for our extended healing time and immediate, colorful bruising). Whatever the reason, I dropped fast and hard, and as a result was very accepting of physical punishments. This would come in useful in later years.
Subs in our circle of friends/acquaintances were not allowed to become complacent; we were expected to keep current on local and world events, learn to form and express opinions on social/political/economic topics, and find some area of expertise to pursue. For the most part, academics took priority over almost everything, but most of the subs (and doms) I knew were also very artistic, and conversations could last well into the night over anything from Greek poetry to Impressionist painting to the latest opera or horror film. S was a voracious reader, which meant I maintained a stack of books that he insisted I read so that we could discuss them. He always encouraged me to pursue my theater work, and I accidentally (happily) discovered a significant talent for massage that became quite in demand.
We were also expected to communicate openly and honestly at all times with our doms; if there was something we didn't like (or something we liked), we expressed it. I wasn't crazy about too-tight nipple clamps or certain types of vibrators, and had a singular dislike for water sports and humiliation involving most bodily fluids, but I had a great affinity for, among other things, corsets, cat o'nine tails, hot wax, and being tied up.
I'm not going to waste time outlining every detail of my training, but I would be remiss if I didn't include a couple of the more significant turning points for me.
S and I did not have sex- or any kind of sexual contact- for months after my training started, and not for my lack of trying (remember that I was not allowed to pleasure myself until he gave me permission; also remember I was a very hormonal teenage girl). He was waiting for some clue from me that I was fully ready to take the relationship to that point, and despite all my verbal assurances he would have none of it- nor would he let me see him naked, and the curiosity was killing me. One night, as I lay shackled spread-eagle to his bed, panting and sweaty and covered in whip marks, I begged him to take pity on me. He stood over me, turning a riding crop over in his hand, fully dressed as always, and shrugged.
I could fuck you, and it would be pleasurable for both of us, but it would be meaningless. I won't have such a thing.
I believe I called him every name in the book that night.
The breaking point came not long before I left for college. S had picked me up from a competition, and I knew immediately that he was in a foul mood. I've already said that his punishments were never done out of cruelty or anger, and the few times I'd seen him in such a mood he hadn't laid a hand on me specifically for that reason.
He came close that night.
I attempted to engage him in conversation, and he ignored me. After a while I became petulant and needy, for no other reason than I wanted his attention, and he left the room. Now, of *course* the thing to do would have been to apologize for my behavior and talk about what I was feeling/thinking- perhaps even find out what he was upset about. But I was still hesitant to share such things with him, and, hurt, I did the one thing I knew would get a response from him. I went to the kitchen, got a soda and some cookies, went to the library, picked out one of his favorite books, and sat in his chair to read- and wait.
Any one of these things would have gotten me at least a lashing. Combined, there was no telling what might happen.
I'd finished a chapter, along with most of the cookies and soda, when he walked in the room. It took a tremendous effort on my part to not look up, though it was probably lucky for me that I didn't, as that would have pushed things too far.
His voice was dark and unrecognizable when he finally spoke, and for a moment I regretted my actions.
Go lay down on the bed. Right now.
I had one last opportunity to change what would happen- I could have taken any path but the one that I did, and things probably would have turned out differently.
I have always been thankful for what I chose.
I couldn't help myself; he'd hurt my feelings, and I wasn't going to give in that easily. So I moved slowly, deliberately; setting the book on the table, making sure my cup was on a coaster, taking one last bite of cookie before meandering up the stairs.
It did not escape my notice, as I passed him in the doorway, that his eyes were shut, his hands balled into fists, and he was making a concerted effort to regulate his breathing.
I lay on the bed and listened to him moving around downstairs, and for the first time I was very uncertain. He came into the room, wordlessly gathering supplies and laying them out on the nightstand, and I still had a chance to stop him (I always had the chance, of course- I could use my safe word any time), but something in me told me to wait.
The last thing he put on the table was a very large, very sharp-looking knife.
Within moments I was blindfolded and secured to the bed. The hours that followed are a blur; though nothing was used that I hadn't already experienced, each blow had an edge to it that it hadn't before. Although tears were steadily running down my cheeks, my wrists and ankles were rubbed raw from straining at the ties, and my throat burned from holding in the screams, I refused to give in.
I took everything he was giving me, and refused to break.
When the knife touched my skin, I froze. The razor edge traced patterns across my body, and I held my breath, waiting for the sting as it cut into my skin, but it wouldn't come. Over and over, first the edge, then the point, and I began to shake as the anticipation became overwhelming.
I gasped as the tip pressed against the pulse point on my neck, but still said nothing.
Do you want me to stop?
The point pressed a hair's breath deeper.
No, sir.
Of course not. Would you like me to tell you why?
I could almost imagine the smallest drop of blood forming on the tip of the knife where it bit into my skin.
Yes, sir.
Because you hate having to be responsible, be in control, be the perfect little girl everyone thinks you are, all the time. So you need this. And no matter what I do to you, you'll take it, and you'll enjoy it, and you will keep asking for more.
The mattress dipped as he shifted on it, but the knife didn't move at all.
But you have got to learn to stop topping from the bottom. I can't take control if you won't communicate with me. And I will not be manipulated by you.
I felt the fingers of his other hand then, barely brushing the inside of my thigh for the first time, and I didn't know how to respond.
Tell me what you need.
My mouth moved, but I couldn't form words. On a- pardon the pun- razor's edge between fear and arousal, I had no clue how to ask for what I needed. His fingers came closer to the top of my thigh; at the same time the knife twisted just a little bit. I knew he was testing me, and what scared me the most was not passing.
Tell. Me.
Please..
One word, a start, and the fingers moved closer, the pressure on the knife may have relaxed slightly.. but he still waited.
And something snapped inside me.
There's a reason why one of the most powerful and well-known bibles verses is also the shortest; John 11:35 simply states 'Jesus wept.' There is an immense difference between crying as an expression of physical, spiritual, or emotional pain/loss, and truly weeping. John describes Jesus as being 'deeply moved in his spirit,' and that is the heart of the difference.
Something snapped and I wept that night, for the first time ever; great, wracking sobs that came from the absolute depths of my soul.
S yanked the ties free and the blindfold off, pulling me into his lap, rocking me like a child, stroking my hair and telling me over and over again what a good girl I was. Eventually he laid me back down on the bed, curling his body around mine, holding me as I fell asleep.
When I awoke the next morning, still cradled in his arms, everything had changed.
I understood, finally, what true submission felt like, and it was like the weight of a thousand years was lifted off of me. It sounds almost trite to say that in the surrender is freedom, but it's the closest that most of us can come to describing it. After S and I had finished our morning routine we sat in the screened-in porch- him on the couch, me on the floor with my head on his knee as he gently stroked my hair- and talked for hours about the night before, and there was no hesitancy in my answers to his questions; I laid my heart as bare for him as my body had always been, and the world didn't come to the cataclysmic end I'd always feared it would if I allowed myself to be that vulnerable.
Interestingly, it turns out that butterknives left in the freezer for a few hours feel just like regular, sharp knives, especially when someone is blindfolded.
I received my first collar that night, a thick piece of black leather with a heavy buckle and ring, and my secondary training began.
*much* more intersting is an understatement.
ReplyDeleteEach new chapter is ever more fascinating.
You're going to **love** Part Five. ;)
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