Trigger Warning: This post contains references to along with details of sexual abuse and assault.
When I first submitted to Beloved she gave me a series of tasks to earn my collar. Some were simple and mundane to test how well I can adhere to her rules. Some involved various kinks to explore. Others still involved testing my limits, pain thresholds, and the extent of my nature. These tasks are ongoing and give me immense pleasure made all the better knowing she is pleased, and they also help with our growth. That’s what pleases her the most, when she grows as a Dominant and I a submissive. An integral part of that growth is stoking our creative fires. We both have a passion for writing as evidenced by our blogs–as do our readers I’m sure, this is WordPress afterall–and as all writers understand sometimes life gets in the way. Beloved has a fix for that. She gives me prompts. I thoroughly enjoyed writing this, and I’ve been considering publishing it somewhere but somehow posting it to my own blog seems a bit inappropriate because at its heart this truly is a collaboration.
To begin, I say outright my submission is the benign expression of a vengeful alchemy of emotional, sexual, and physical abuse. On the surface it may seem counter-intuitive for a guy like me to seek submission, but submission offers me something here to fore denied to me: Power. As a submissive I claim sovereignty over my prior abusers and the right to twist their abusive acts into whatever perverse kinks I crave. In submission I am not a doormat or a martyr as I was raised to be, I am a prize, a skilled, wanted, and closely loved prize of a man I’d otherwise never allow myself to be. In submission I have a voice to negotiate or even reject the rules under which I live. In submission I am given choices I was never offered as a son or a husband, for as a child my body was defiled and as a husband my desires rejected. As a submissive my choices are respected, and in return I help my chosen Dominant to taste the power she craves, and I get to watch her consume what I offer and perpetually bloom into an ever more magnificent woman. I give her my body and my obedience, and she gives me refuge and unparalleled pleasure.
I must’ve been six years old, maybe seven, when I went to see Disney’s Sleeping Beauty with my cousins. I remember being struck by the beauty of the story and the animation itself. Princess Aurora was stunningly rendered and I found myself instantly infatuated with the character. After the film we returned home and while everyone chatted I quietly reflected on Aurora and her life in the charge of the three fairies. The fiction intended to make Princess Aurora seem weak and fragile, but I looked at her and saw power. Of course her nemesis would need to be another woman; no man could resist her. What was it like to be that pretty? What was it like to be wanted, desired, and pursued? I wanted that same power, and so while we played outside that day—instead of wanting to be the heroic Prince—I imagined being her which didn’t go over very well with my cousins who were girls. I was the only boy in the group and in our games they needed a Prince not another Princess, so they expected me to pursue and pick one of them, and being unable to make that choice I was declared a terrible Prince. I’m sure they and my parents wrote it all off as the childish antics of a six year old boy; Boys are not pretty, I was told.
At around the same time my older step brother was having his way with me and choreographing his very own harem between myself and his sister. There were no options here, just emotional blackmail leveraging the emotional fragility of a child unable to comprehend his own disadvantage. Physically, I actually very much enjoyed what he did to me. He would run his hands over my thighs in the middle of the night and I’d open them for him pretending to be asleep, and he’d touch and fondle my prepubescent cock until I couldn’t hide my wakefulness anymore. Then he’d demand oral sex, not that he could cum—neither of us were old enough to have orgasms in those early years—but he did thoroughly enjoy my mouth on him. Of course, when it came time for my turn he’d never put his mouth on me. These were one-way sexual transactions that began at bath time, continued deep into the night, and would be waiting for me after school the next day. I would’ve enjoyed it immensely if not for the illicit nature of it all. See, when it started I had no inkling he was doing something wrong. I would’ve carried on like that for many more years oblivious to it, maybe even mentioning it in casual conversation like, “Yeah, I had to suck on my brother’s penis for two hours last night!” It was the blackmail that tipped me off and consequently ruined it. Sometimes I’d get upset when my efforts at pleasing him were not reciprocated equally and I’d refuse to do those things he enjoyed. That’s when the threats came. If I didn’t do what he asked he’d tell our parents about it all, and then I’d get in trouble. What a gambit on his part, eh? What if I managed to figure out that his threat was hollow? Would he really tattle tale on himself? He never would’ve, but the idea made me feel ashamed, and that’s when it took a dark turn. That’s when I resisted. It stopped for a while, of course, but he knew me and knew I liked it even if I was ashamed of it, and one night after about a two year hiatus I felt his hand on the back of my thigh again—we always shared the same bed in the same room as boys often do. He heard me gasp as he trailed his fingers up to my pajama covered ass. I helped him remove them. He rolled me over onto my stomach, pushed his finger into me, loosened me up, and then fucked me. I was being raped, but I felt so pretty. I cried the entire time, but he wanted me. I didn’t give myself to him, he just took what he wanted. I imagine that to this very day if I were alone with my older step-brother he would rape me, and up until now I would have let him.
My parents were (still are) the religious type. Specifically they’re Evangelical Republicans who still believe they’re a part of some kind of silent majority, as if a majority of Americans actually agreed with them. Maybe back in the 1980s when Billy Graham was America’s Pastor, but Billy Graham is dead, and their ugly god is on it’s last leg. It was in the name of that god that I was disciplined in the theoretical model of Doctor James Dobson. The house was littered with paraphernalia from Focus On The Family, along with this despicable VHS cassette series called “Where There’s a Will There’s An A,” as if academic achievement could be beaten into a kid along with fear of god, elders, and America. The only thing they beat into me was an inferiority complex. The principle male role model in my life would’ve crucified himself if he could. Martyrdom was the ultimate cause in my parents’ house. Sacrifice of the self for the family, or for god, or for the country, and so all I ever wanted was to be miserable so that someone else could be happy. This idea remains the most toxic thing in my life. Not even my brother straddling my face raping my mouth with his twelve year old prick while I stared up at him wide eyed hoping he was enjoying himself at my expense is more toxic than the idea that my purpose in life is to suffer for nothing. Let it be known that I have a lot of baggage. Perhaps there is way I can finally put it down and walk away.
Remember when you first went to the swimming pool with goggles on and you were in the deep end of the pool swimming as deep as you could go skimming along the very bottom? You weren’t thinking about where you were going, you were just swimming and enjoying the closeness of the water and the protection it offered from whatever shit was happening on the surface. Then you came upon the diving section by accident and saw the precipitous drop of the pool floor as it descended to 12 plus feet down. Do you remember ever doing that? How deep it looked, how it could’ve stolen your breath if you weren’t already holding it? You may have stopped there, treading water for the last few seconds you had before returning to the god awful noise of society was necessary, but you stopped anyway because it was not what you expected to see. Well, you’ve come to the deep end, kid. Watch how much further you go because the shit goes deeper than you ever imagined.
Bondage and Discipline, Dominance and submission, Sadomasochism: Go on, read it again. You’ll want to, because until you get it through your head this isn’t a fucking game nothing I say after is going to make much sense, because in that word salad is something I want you to focus on. Ignore the bondage, the discipline, the sadomasochism, hell even set aside the entire concept of Domination, because this is the manifesto of a submissive. Why on Earth would a man who was raped by his brother, beaten (not spanked, beaten, hit in the face, punched, dragged from his first grade class room to be beaten in the bathroom), choose to submit to anything? Take all the time you need to figure out that at the very bottom of it all there is not one shred of trust to be found for any thing or any one. It’s not there. My brother fucked it out of me. My parents beat it out of me. It’s gone. I didn’t trust my wife. I have never trusted my girlfriends, my boyfriends, my friends, my relatives, none of them have I ever trusted to respect what I wanted. I could go on but you get the picture: I have trust issues. At the core of BDSM is trust. Trust is the Sun around which it all orbits, and where I couldn’t trust anyone I can trust her, my Domme. She’s earned it in so many ways.
She knows who she is. She has the courage to own her past, the respect to demand nothing, and the moral clarity to spare me her judgment. No one has ever once given me this gift. The only strings are the strings we choose between us, the rules and protocols governing our relationship. It may seem outlandish looking in from without, but for a man who can’t trust anyone to have this agreement laid out between us is fruit for the soul. When she tells me she wants me I believe her. When she tells me I’m pretty, attractive, handsome (choose your adjective) I believe her. When she touches me her hands speak truth on my skin. When I cry out I speak the truth of her exquisite pain. She makes me feel powerful, and in return I surrender to her leaving all this baggage at the door.
That is why I am thankful for our relationship.