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Posts Tagged ‘submission’

  1. The Question of Submission

    May 11, 2016 by Heather Cole


    Credit: Depositphotos

    Credit: Deposit Photos


    I’ve been doing a lot of inner excavating lately, and one doesn’t go digging into the darkest part of their heart to find rainbows and fluffy kitties. I’m a seeker. I want to see what lies beneath even if it scares the ever living shit out of me. And let me tell you, I’ve found the opposite of kitties in the darkness of my soul. Even though the digging has been painful and dark, the earth I’ve turned over has been rich. Which is the whole point of working on oneself, right? You go through the pain to grow. At least, that’s what my therapist had told me.

    My personal seismic shift began last spring. The catalyst took the form of a visit from sir’s wife to stay with him for a month. I’m not going to go into detailing the series of events, because ultimately the specifics are irrelevant. The resulting actions, the reverberations of their time together and how it indirectly and directly involved me, shook the foundation of my relationship to sir and to myself. It was the latter part that pushed me into a tailspin. By the end of January 2016 (my last trip to see sir), I questioned everything, especially my relationship to BDSM, submission, and my role as a lifestyle submissive in a D/s dynamic. It felt like nothing fit anymore, and no matter how I had tried, I couldn’t make myself feel OK again. Something had to change. I had to change.

    As a result of the catalyst, I began examining my motivations for being in a D/s relationship with a man halfway around the world. We didn’t start that far apart, but that’s where we ended up. I discovered the hard way that the dependency we fostered as a submissive babygirl with a Daddy Dominant when we lived together couldn’t continue in the same way via a long distance relationship. All our protocols and expectations that we created and nurtured when he lived in the States could not withstand the time and distance that now existed between us. I think logically I knew that would happen, but I didn’t feel like it should. Up until last spring, I desperately clung to what our dynamic used to be, and the intimacy we had fostered, as we tried to cobble a semblance of it through text, email, and Skype. And then it blew apart.

    I was devastated. I felt like everything I had believed about submission, about being a submissive to this man in particular, was mostly one-sided. It wasn’t that sir didn’t love or want me, but he was busy creating a new life in a foreign land. And there I was at home, devoting much of my time and energy trying to keep a dynamic in place that was unsustainable given our new circumstances. It felt like I was clinging to a ghost, while everyone else moved forward into a new life.  I’ve called it a game before, but that submissive role was central to my way of life and how I viewed myself as a person. I never clearly saw my dependency on him or how central my sexual submission was to my identity before their visit. Or maybe I didn’t want to admit that I was in deep.

    I grieved for our loss and for the people we were. It was the summer of tears, but eventually I had to gather myself again and figure out how I was going to proceed. Once I began digging into the reasons behind my upset and bewilderment, I saw more clearly my motivations behind my affinity for D/s and BDSM. I took a long, hard look at why I loved the kinky things I did. Some of it was because I was wired this way and kinky shit got me off, and some of it was because I had daddy issues. The most difficult thing to admit was that I was cruel to myself, so that when a Dominant humiliated and degraded myself during play, I felt like I deserved it. Like deep down inside deserved it and should be punished for it.

    Up until that point, I hadn’t realized how I had spent most of my life feeling bad about who I was and how I looked. The changes in our relationship were on one level, but below that lay some core beliefs about myself that needed to shift as well. Getting in touch with those feelings… well, I had some really dark days. I was raised a feminist, and I firmly believed in equality regardless of gender, race, and sexual orientation. I would never shame another human being for their kinks or body type yet I didn’t hesitate to judge my own. Living that kind of dichotomy of beliefs yet remaining unconscious of it—I had to ask myself, why had it taken me so long to see it? Why did I think it was acceptable to treat myself poorly with such little regard? Who was I if I wasn’t a submissive pain slut who deserved degradation and humiliation?

    These musings brought me to the doorstep of what I enjoyed most in my kinky life. In the moments of a BDSM scene when I was the subject of humiliation or degradation, play that I loved, there was a part of me that believed it to be a reflection of my true self. I was a slut, dirty and shamed. And I reveled in those moments—desired it more than anything. Often times a scene was literally my inner critic coming to life, an external force that matched my internal one. In that glorious storm of physical and mental, I was made completely whole, because my internal beliefs had manifested outside of me. The inner critic had been embodied in my dominant, and my body was punished on the exterior in the same way that I punished myself on the inside. (Although sir had always been kinder to me than I was to myself.)  It usually culminated in a crescendo of endorphins that left me in grateful tears, while sir picked me up and helped me come back to myself.

    In those moments, I wanted to be a dependent babygirl who was rescued by her wonderful daddy. I also wanted to be the 24/7 sex slave who only existed to satisfy her dominant. The aspects of me, the most difficult for me to accept—the girl who needed saving and the shameless whore who wanted nothing but sex, were valued in this BDSM-D/s context. I suppose, to the average human being, this was obviously fantasy. But to me, in my heart of hearts, I so wanted them to be real. The feeling of alignment that I gained from a scene was such a relief, that I thought to have more of it was the key to happiness. I convinced myself that if I tried hard enough, my insecurities could find a home between me and sir. I had blurred fantasy with reality to the point that it had become detrimental to my well-being. When you’re waiting for daddy to rescue you, you’re not really addressing your own patterns of behavior or responsibilities. My submission was holding me back from one of my most important roles: being a caretaker of my own life.

    The catalyst in the spring brought me three truths: 1. Sir couldn’t save me. He had to take care of himself, his career, and his home first. 2. In order to save myself, I had to start truly loving myself—the whole way to my core. I had to banish my inner bully and love those pieces of me that were twisted and perverse. I needed to learn how to love myself in the moment, just as I was. 3. I had to stop serving everyone else’s needs before my own and make myself a priority.

    That’s where I am—standing amidst the rubble of the after effects of an earthquake and trying to figure out what to do next. I’m still in a D/s contract with sir, and we’ll be spending most of July together. Honestly, though, I’m not feeling all that submissive. It’s freeing and scary as hell all at the same time. I’m changing as I rearrange my priorities, and I think both sir and I are wondering where we’ll be after the dust has settled. I’m still sifting through the strands of what is fantasy and what is actually plausible in reality and adjusting my expectations of our D/s. I love him dearly, but I’m not the same girl I was. I’m also saying “no” a lot more. Do you have any idea how liberating that is? I say no in order to conserve my time and resources for things that are really important to me.  Most of all, I’m learning to be kind to myself and loving as I’m pushed out of my comfortable labels of “lifestyle submissive” to be something different. Every day I attempt to write a love letter to myself by making healthier choices and allowing space for my needs to be met. I no longer think of myself last thing on the ‘to do’ list.

    I had a dream last night that I was sitting in a college classroom. I had on a small, Hello Kitty backpack, and I leaned forward in my seat to talk to my friend seated in front of me. The professor, a tall man, walked up and down the aisles talking about a secret code that we needed to enter in order to take the test. He asked if anyone needed a pencil, and I raised my hand, feeling sheepish because I hadn’t been listening and was unprepared for class. Then I opened my folder and found three pencils inside. I had remembered them after all. They were short but sharpened. The professor gave me a pencil and made a joke with my friend. Something about if I ever got my act together, I’d be a force to be reckoned with.

    I’m taking that as a good sign. I may not know the secret code yet, but dammit, I have pencils. It’s a start.

  2. Wonder Woman and Bondage

    February 5, 2015 by Heather Cole

    I have loved and idolized Wonder Woman since I was a little girl. I had Wonder Woman underoos, and my cousins and I spent hours wreaking havoc around my grandparents’ farm playing Super Friends. Even at that age I was frustrated that there were so few female superheroes. I didn’t realize that Wonder Woman began as a comic in the 1940’s or that she was into bondage, domination and submission, and spanking parties. If I had known that… well, my childhood probably would have made a lot more sense.

    Many thanks to our friend, Ashley, for finding this article about Wonder Woman’s fascinating roots.

    “If you’ve never read the comics written by Marston and drawn by Harry G. Peter, Berlatsky’s book is particularly eye-opening. It’s not just that Wonder Woman gets tied up more than other heroes (although she does) and that she does plenty of tying up herself. Marston was a psychologist by trade, and his particular views on gender, sexuality, domination, and submission (which were all, in his mind, inextricably linked) are on full display in his Wonder Woman run. There are scenes of children learning to be submissive on Paradise Island, stories where Wonder Woman fails because she isn’t dominate enough, lurid images of women trapped in cages (and, sometimes, lurid images of Steve Trevor tied up). And there are those weird spanking parties.”


    I’m falling in love all over again. Fetch me my magic lasso!

    Read the entire post here: Why Early Wonder Woman Was a Champion of Feminism… and Bondage over at io9.

  3. New Territory in My Submission

    June 18, 2013 by Heather Cole

    Saturday night I was riding the unicorn high. I had returned home from a successful evening of dinner with friends and some good discussion about me being their unicorn. They wanted a friends-with-benefits arrangement that had the potential to be sexy and kinky. I felt desirable and horny, and when LH arrived, I was ready to get naked and fuck. Not that I said anything about my desires, because I was fairly certain I could peel us out of our clothes and he’d take the hint. Yes, I was feeling that confident in my powers of seduction.

    When LH walked through my bedroom door, I sensed he was in a mood. He smiled at me, but it was the smile of a predator. Right away I sensed he was in Master space. I didn’t listen to the cautionary voice in my head who whispered to tread lightly and pay attention. I blithely talked about my evening as I made the bed, excited about the opportunities that hovered on the horizon. Because even though my intuition was wicked accurate, I often ignored her words of advice. sigh… because I’m an idiot and like to live on the edge.

    Sir grabbed a handful of my hair and pulled me up to look at him. His eyes captured mine, and he gave me the barest hint of a smile. “I’m going to make you cum, and then I’m going to hurt you. Do you understand?”

    I nodded, still not quite believing him. He continued to explain what he had in store for me as I changed tack, slipping off my dress and unbuttoning his shirt and shorts. His hand hovered over my cunt exactly where I wanted, and I tried pushing myself closer. All I could think about was getting those fingers inside me, but he pushed me away and told me to get on the bed. I did as he said, still thinking that I could cajole him into doing what I wanted.

    Biting back a word of protest, I lay on the bed and spread my thighs. I lay there silently inviting him to ravage me, offering myself and wishing we could get on with it. I pouted when he refused to touch me and gave him my biggest, bluest eyes. I felt mildly irritated that he was resisting my playfulness, but figured he would soon succumb to my wiles. After all, I was a unicorn. I had magical powers of glittery seduction.


    The feel of his hand across my cheek froze me in place. I gasped, and he hit me again.

    “There’s my slave. I see her now,” he said. Stunned, I didn’t say a word but waited for my next instruction.

    Getting slapped was a trigger for me–a trigger in a good way. The blow placed me firmly at the edge of the deepest part of my submission, a place where we had played before with wonderful results. I eagerly waited for the next thing that would push me into the abyss and transform me into the enduring, peaceful slave that always dwells inside me.

    Much to my shame and frustration, I never got there.

    As the night proceeded, sir kept me precariously balanced at the edge of submission. There was no meditative state for me, no peace in my grudging submission, and it was driving me crazy. I felt frustrated as he encouraged me to struggle against him, pulling my arms free from his grasp as he fucked me. I had orgasm after orgasm against my will as I desperately tried to find the peaceful place within me that could just accept the stimulus with open arms and without judgment. I wanted to find that place within me that endured without complaint, that would take whatever sir gave me with unflappable calm. That was my definition of a “good” slave, but I couldn’t seem to attain that state of grace.

    After a particularly messy fucking of my ass, sir shoved me into the shower. I stood naked and shivering as he poured cold water over me, gently scolding me for being such a dirty whore. Part of me loved being roughly used while a smaller part seethed with frustration. No matter how hard I tried or how much I wanted it, I couldn’t dive into my slave self to fully embrace and revel in the degradation and pain of our scene. And for the first time ever, I was angry at LH. Again he grabbed my face so that he could see directly into my eyes.

    “Do I have all of you, slave?”

    When I remained silent, he wrapped his fingers around my jaw. “Use your words. Do I have all of you?”

    “No, sir,” I replied and closed my eyes as my cheeks flushed with embarrassment.

    I didn’t realize it until I said the actual words, but I was holding on to one last piece of my free self. If sir wasn’t going to give me my familiar cues that would launch me into deep submission, then I’d fight him and hold on to that one last bit of independence. I clung to it, making a small barrier between us. The problem was that I wanted to give it up more than I wanted to possess it, but I didn’t know how. The back and forth tugging of our play had upset my idea of peaceful submission, and I couldn’t figure out how to get back to familiar slave territory from this new position.

    “Thank you for telling me the truth,” sir said, and kissed the top of my head. But he wasn’t finished with me.

    Seemingly on impulse, sir decided to cane me for a missed text earlier in the week. I fought the beating tooth and nail. Refusing to lie still, I actually sat up and tried to grab the cane out of his hand. I’ve never done such a thing in all my BDSM days, and I felt an odd combination of exhilaration and shame for attempting it. Finally when sir called the scene over and pulled me into his arms, I tried to believe his reassurances. He was thrilled with the territory we had explored, but all I felt was frustration with myself and disappointment.

    I’m still processing everything that happened, and LH and I are still talking through the many things that occurred and the feelings we experienced. (Damn the feefees!) This morning I knelt beside him on the bed, dressed in running clothes and ready for coffee. He said, “You’re a beautiful, desirable and powerful creature. But I want you to remember that you and your empire rest under my boot. Under those clothes you’re wearing, you are my naked slave.”

    I’ve thought a lot about that statement, carefully analyzing the layers of my reaction. I wondered if the whole point of the scene was to claim me or was it to teach me that there was more than one way to dominate a slave. Or even more intriguing, is sir offering me the chance to explore an entirely new territory of my submission–a place where I’m permitted to struggle and fight. It will mean revising my definition of what a “good” slave does, and I’m starting to be OK with that. In fact, I believe I’m going to thoroughly enjoy myself.