To My Slave: A Love Letter

Dear Dedita,

“I suffer for you.”

You chanted it like a mantra, while the rope attached to your hair and the suspension winch made you stand on your tip toes.

The mantra was what kept you afloat as your legs gave out, as your hair gave out. You were crying. It was not from the pain (I am sure there was pain), it was not from the isolation (you were alone in the darkness for a very long time), it was not the physical sacrifice that you were experiencing. It was the suffering that made you cry and stretch your hand out towards me, even though it was a burning torment to extend your body so far past it’s limit.

There is nothing more honest than suffering. To be slowly lowered into pain, to move beyond discomfort and the nebulous region where masochists find their pleasure. It is as if these ideas of pain, discomfort, torture, are nothing but the thin ice above a lake of sacrifice. I want to lower you into it, because it is in this cold water that your skin turns blue and you become my Ophelia.

As my slave, you float in this icy hell for me in many ways. Most are not obvious to the outside observer; many of them are quiet personal hells that only you and I share, while some are hells and traps that only you know. These little sufferings, like a thousand razor cuts, leave you raw and wounded and so few people ever get to see. Taking your body and allowing it to bleed, actually bleed, means that you are given a chance to show the world how dedicated you are to me. I want your suffering. I want you to crawl across broken glass to show the world what you and I already know, that you are mine.

Love,
Me

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Ideas for the new year

I am a writer. Not a writer in the shock-of-white-hair-scarf-and-corduroy kind of way but in the way that means my thoughts come out better on paper. For this reason I am going to be writing again and more this year than last. Two things I will be working on; brevity and certainty.

To the first point I am going to try and get my point across in fewer words, fewer thoughts, and less time. Say it right the first time. This will allow me more time to act on the discoveries I come to understand.

As to the later, I am going to trust that what I say the first time is what I meant. There is no need to search while writing. Leave the pondering to posterity.

First item of business, being a forgetful master. Things slip from my mind on a moment to moment basis. This lack of long term hold on daily tasks can feel like a human soul stuck on a goldfish’s mind. It can also be seen as a chance to find the now and realize what is important. I can see this as a chance to prove to myself and others what is valuable in the present. The present of the present if you will.

Turn of the Screw

Foreword

Dedita has presented on edge play and emotional BDSM for years, but only recently have we begun teaching together. When discussing what we wanted to present, we went through the several binders filled with class information and notes that she had put together. There was information on emotional play from sadism to masochism, fear play to scening in anger, and everything in between. But one thing was noticeably missing from this repertoire; a class on humiliation.

How was it that this girl, who puts herself in degrading and debasing scenes, who thrives when I objectify her, has classes on all kinds of heart-wrenching topics but has zero research and notes on humiliation, a cornerstone of emotional masochism?

I had to find out more. This was challenging; it is a sensitive subject for Dedita, because she has a deep sense of shame, that, up until our relationship, she refused to discuss with anyone.

Dedita had just come out of a relationship where shame and degradation, especially surrounding her sexuality, had played a key role and left a lasting impression. When I met her, it was far too tender a topic for her to confront personally let alone in front of a class. How can you share your knowledge on humiliation without talking about the things that humiliate you the most?

I am a very sexual creature and find BDSM power dynamics to be a way of accessing sexual gratification, so when we started to explore our relationship, I quickly made it a goal to help her confront these demons of sexual fear and shame. This post isn’t about how I’ve done that; I could write volumes on the techniques I’ve developed to break the barriers surrounding her feelings of sexual inadequacy and shame. This is a post about how far I, and she, have come in facing that shame in six short months.

About a month ago, Dedita and I presented at Winter Wickedness in Ohio. With the above information in mind, I forced her to put a humiliation class into our roundup of potential presentations. Around the same time a large number of compromising and erotic photos of her came into my possession. They were hot and played to one of my earliest kinks, found porn. She was embarrassed and ashamed and generally mortified that I not only had the pictures, but that they had made for such great fodder for me.

It seemed only perfect that these two worlds should come together. I am a writer and love a good story arc. Here I was given two; her sexual humiliation and my found porn fetish. All that was left was to draw them into a scene. The perfect place? A demo in front of seventy-five or so students eager to see the nuts and bolts of humiliation in action.

I present to you:

A Turn of the Screw

A sliding scale. A torture of degrees where each turn makes the agony worse until it is unbearable. The goal is to see the change from pleasure to discomfort to pain to agony. It is like looking for that place where one color of the rainbow changes to another, recognizing the nuances of gradation that connects cool blue to boiling red. It is all one in that greater arc and it is in those moments of acute perception that we see the thin line that connects our public selves to our private selves.

Chapter 1: Embarrassment

She gave a nervous smile and a laugh. She sat upright and still as her friend began to put makeup on her She was self-conscious of the seventy-five people watching her being dolled up and confused about why I was having more makeup applied to her already done face.

There was nothing degrading or humiliating about what was happening, nothing inherently bad about the sliding on of blush or brush of mascara against her eyelashes. Embarrassment came from simply turning the spotlight on to her, making the class focus on her body and face as she had a private function publicly performed.

I showed the makeup artist a picture of Dedita while discussing with the class the stash of photos I’d recently found. The picture was of her at twenty, a head shot with bright eyeliner and straightened hair. When I explained that she looked like a little girl trying to wear big girl make up, she became uneasy. She knew then that the pictures were part of the scene.

I could see her shore up her defenses, refusing to allow this to affect her. She chatted with her makeup artist and they joked about how if I really wanted to humiliate her, I would have gotten a guy to do her hair and eyeshadow. Her comments didn’t worry me. I have patience and know how the slow screw works.

Chapter 2: Humiliation

I pulled out the rest of the pictures. The single head shot was joined by photos of her, at the same age, posing with her new breast implants. I told the crowd about her, about me, about kinks that are personal and private and very sexual while I waved naked photos of her in the air.

Dedita is not a sexual creature in public. Her shame means that she is not a person that wears that part of herself where others can see. She is a strong and smart and funny and creative mind that can crush a cocky but slow-minded “dom” with a word. She knows what she likes and is willing to share her vulnerability with those she loves. But I didn’t want her to share anything, didn’t want her to give me an inch. I wanted to take it like an invading soldier.

In pulling out those pictures, I seized her vulnerability, her shame, and held it up like my war prize. Her smile began to shake, and she was no longer embarrassed. I saw in her face that she realized the control that she had (or thought she had) through her snarky demeanor was no longer (never was) hers.

She was obviously uncomfortable at this point, frantic really, and began to repeat that this is not what we had agreed to while pointing at the pictures.

That’s true. We didn’t agree to me using those pictures, didn’t even agree to me having them. When I found them, Dedita me told me to throw them away. But there is no agreement in our relationship; I decided unilaterally that this is where we were going. I decided that this was something that I was going to have her do. She is my tool, my toy to be used, even if I use her against herself.

She was nervous and starting to get angry, her subconscious knowing what I was about to do, but this stage was only a stop, a half turn of the screw.

Chapter 3: Shame

I pulled my six favorite pictures from the stack and started down the center aisle. I handed the pictures to the crowd and turned back to see Dedita’s expression, the defiance draining from her face. Her makeup finished, Dedita turned and hid behind her newly straightened hair, unable to face me or the crowd. The fight was becoming harder for her to put up.

Her strength, her defiance comes in the form of standing tall and firm. She will look you in the eye, her sharp tongue will cut you down to size. But make her face things she hates about herself, show her that you can see those things, and shame, sweet shame will set in. Shame hides her face, takes her voice, leaves her defenseless.

I made her stand and face the crowd, where she couldn’t hide. I used this moment to demonstrate to them what shame looks like and how to recognize it, the posture, the facial expressions, the body language. I had her stand there like a model, displaying the beauty of this emotion instead of clothing. In her face I could see her thoughts…even feeling shame was more than she deserved.

Shame implies a status that can be taken away. Shame is created when a creature within the social hierarchy is knocked down a notch or two. The fact that I had played her into this corner without her being able to mount even the most meager of counter attacks made her question whether she was worthy of even feeling like she had a hierarchy to descend from.

And the screw turned.

Chapter 4: Degradation

The war was over before it had even begun. No asymmetrical counter offensive, no Viet Cong guerrilla style insurgency would help her now. This was a battle of shock and awe played on the mind and she had been sucker punched, booby trapped and brought down before a single shot was fired.

And I didn’t have to beat her into submission, all I had to do was hand out a few pictures. I walked around her and chatted with the audience showing her that I did not break a mental sweat taking and stripping her of her will, her dignity, her humanity.

The pictures show Dedita lounging in the corner of her bedroom, propped against a piece of furniture, naked and splayed out in different poses. I put a chair in the corner of the room, mocking the photo shoot and forced her to lean against it. She knew then what I was planning.

We were going to recreate those sexualized photos; she was mine to move, to stand and pose.

But this was not where it would stop. Just as there are colors, ultra-violets and infrareds beyond the visible spectrum, there are controls and mental tortures beyond what I had put on her. I was still in control of her, directing her movements, and in my hands she feels a sense of belonging, knows she is safe. In my hands there is a hierarchy, because I appreciate and value her, value who she is.

I could see in her face that she felt like my thing. It was painful to her, but if Master wanted to make her into his sexual thing for his pleasure, that she could handle. We were about to find out what would happen if I took away the safety of me from this equation, and simply showed everyone that she was a sexual thing.

Nuance. It is all in nuance.

Chapter 5: Objectification

As I collected the pictures back up from attendees, I had mentally noted people in the crowd who were convention archetypes. I handed the pictures back out to them: a strong and dominant man, a friendly switch, a loving and long time friend, an embarrassed submissive.

I didn’t just give the pictures to these people, I also gave them her.

I asked them to pose her based on the photos they held. They took turns telling her where to put her arms, her legs, her head. They made her strip and lounge like a doll. They had her make erotic facial expressions. They arranged her with her tits out, legs spread, mouth pursed. She was there for their entertainment, no longer under my control. She was nothing more than a sexual object.

A friend with a camera started to snap pictures and, with the sharp burst of the flash, her soul was finally stolen away completely. Her face closed, she gave in, and became the nameless, faceless, 2 dimensional photographic thing I had made her, displaying the fact that she was a sexual creature to one and all.

This was what I wanted. Not this moment of her losing herself and her humanity alone, but the range. I was watching the slow turn of the screw that changed this sharp tongued teacher of kink into my object to be used and shared as I saw fit. They are one in the same and so completely different.

 

The Five Senses of Understanding

“I need you to hear me…”

It is not the first time I have been told this. I need to hear better, I need to listen to the meaning and not the words. The problem is that I am deaf; literally and metaphorically I cannot hear. My father is almost deaf, and I have been losing hearing in both ears rapidly for several years. It is in every aspect of my life really; music, poetry, anything that is built on the rhythmic frequencies created by compression and vibration. I cannot, as the saying goes, carry a tune in a bucket.

But the thing is that I literally can carry a tune in a bucket. I can collect the notes, place them in the bucket, and see them floating like water in the shadows of the zinc colored recess. I can sew together a broken heart, I can paint with emotions and draw the eye to the lost corner of the canvas where a dab of blue is catching the light in a way that says sadness better than any broken melody. I am filled with images. I am stuck in the visual world, deaf but able to see in ranges outside the visible spectrum. This is my world, the still life of bitter fruit set out on soft velvet you can feel, not with your hands, but with your eyes.

There are other ways to experience the world.

There are those who feel the world and all its bumps and jagged edges. There are those who can taste anticipation and still others who can smell memories more vivid than you or I will ever see with our minds eye. Each person uses his or her senses differently to experience the world. Each telling of what is and what was changes what was and what is.

And yet, here we stand trying to understand, trying to make others understand, trying to be heard by the deaf dumb and blind. It is in this futility, in this desperate need to be understood in spite of the Uncertainty Principles that makes our existence special and all too human.

A Wise Master Once Said…..

Dedita Nodi

It’s hard, isn’t it little one, when we view people as Gods and they make stupid, human mistakes?  We correct that by not viewing people as infallible.

-12/30/12 as he strips the soaking wet clothes from my body as I huddle in the shower

I can not control what the world does to you, but I can control how you respond to it.

-12/16/12 as he comforts me, pressing my head to his chest with his fist in my hair.

There is no pleasure in hurting you through carelessness.  You’ve had enough of that for a life time.  When I hurt you, I do it deliberately and methodically. Because I plot and plan in detail ways to make your life excruciating, you know you can let go with me.  Just be vulnerable, little girl, and I’ll do the rest.

-12/1/12 before an emotionally devastating scene

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Bigger (love) on the Inside

Kink.com Bondage Woman

I have lunch scheduled with a friend for today. He is an old friend from an old life and the last time we talked it was about how one of our close mutual friends had “fallen in with a bad crowd”. What he meant by this was that she was working for Kink.com. I kept quiet. I did not talk about the fact that I had a membership to kink.com, or the fact that ZeeGee and I used it. I did not mention that we had just come out as non-monogamous or that we were kinky. It seemed like more than was fair to dump on him all at once and if I was going to say anything, I was going to say everything.

When it rains, it pours…

I will not do this in half measures. If this is important enough to tell him about, if he is important enough to tell then I am telling him everything. My life is an open book to those I am close enough to. Maybe it is too much for him. He is a good guy with a kind heart and I am not sure if the idea of being cruel, brutal, and controlling are traits he can see without negative connotations. Maybe it is stronger than our friendship.

This is an idea I have been contemplating since before this all began. I have always made friends easily, partially because I am easy-going and willing to listen, and partially because I am willing to talk about what seem to be intimate details of myself. The truth is that I do not consider many of those details intimate and many of the people who were my “friends” are nothing more than acquaintances. When I began to let my inner-self out and I realized that he would not be accepted by most of the people I was associating with, I simply stopped talking to those people. I was not losing something, I was not falling away from real friends because in many cases they did not really know me.

This went for family, and high school friends, and people I met when I first moved to Chicago. They did not know what I was really thinking. I was not losing confidants. I was not losing my secret confessors because I was never telling them secrets, I was never  confessing.

Opening the door to the TARDIS

So he is coming over and I am going to invite him into my house but something will be/is different. I am not going to hold back my thoughts and feelings like I did before. I have come to terms with the fact that I am a monster at times.  I am ok with what I want and who I am. I am also ok with others knowing that. If I have invited you into my house, over my threshold then I feel you can enter into my world. I am not sure what will come of this small experiment in outing myself to my past. Perhaps I will find that this is not what I want. perhaps the world is not ready for my honesty. We will see but in the meantime I have clothes to fold and dishes to wash and all of time and space to explain.

 

PostScript

The meeting went well and all he said to me was, “why didn’t you tell me before?” I told him that I thought he would judge me and he explained that his concerns had always been for how quickly our friend fell in love and had nothing to do with the lifestyle. It was comforting to hear. Not many people understand where any of us are coming from.

 

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Words, Actions and Words of Action

blood-diamonds-8Much of what I know about Mastery I have learned by doing or watching others do. It seems ironic to me in many ways that I can not comprehend from reading. It is my medium to translate into but the end product is not something I could consume myself. This means I will often starve for lessons while I am writing.

And yet, this is my commodity. Like a farmer who is allergic to the cheese he makes, I find myself in the market selling that which I cannot touch. It is a mighty pendulum swinging between its poles. At times I am free to write. The muse is upon me and I am carving the words from the ethereal. I do this until I am starving and sallow with hunger for action. Then I turn and turn back to the fertile fields of life and begin again to consume. This is one of those times. The hunger is upon me and I need to find sustenance so forgive the longer breaks between posts.

Perhaps I will find a way to write while I hunt. Perhaps I will find someway to carry scraps of paper in my pockets or to scratch the words that come to me in the bark of trees. There may be words within these actions that can come out. They are different, less polished, more raw with flecks of dirt hiding in their cracks and beneath their leaves. They are not the prettiest gems in the jewelry store but they hold a power none the less.