Of Mice and Monsters III

 

 

 

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Of course I knew he might be into S&M when he asked me at the beginning of our relationship to enter into a BDSM contract.   I was walking in with my eyes wide open.   He said that the use of kink would build trust and bring us closer.   Closer than vanilla couples.    That, appealed to me after having been wounded by a would-be good guy in a “normal” long-term relationship.  He said it may involve some light bondage and pain but nothing that I wasn’t comfortable with.   That we would never do anything that I wasn’t comfortable with.  Which all felt like I was going to be in control of what going on.

The oldest trick in the book:  The illusion of control.

I was green at that time and knew nothing of this subculture.   I didn’t know jargon like: SSC (Safe, Sane, and Consensual) and RACK (Risk Aware Consensual Kink).  He was certainly not going to tell me either.   That was the point, to leave me in the dark and to leave him with all the knowledge and power.

In due course I did learn that he like to inflict pain.  He like to spank using his hand.  He like to use a paddle, crop, flogger, whip, cane, nipple clamps, hot wax, Ben Wa balls, anal plugs, ropes, blindfolds, handcuffs, ball gags, whatever the hell he wanted.  Bloody yes he had all the tools a good dominant doing BDSM would have in his bag-o-tricks.

He asked me one night to go pick out some porn to watch for the evening.  This was awkward for me because at this point in my life, I had only seen maybe a few porn movies period.  He had an extensive porn library.  There was very little of what you could consider soft-porn. You know, mom getting pile-driven, doggy style in the bedroom.  I mean there was one like that and maybe two MILF type genre CD’s.  But the vast majority were really fucked up stuff.    Titles like: Granny’s Gone Wild: depicting elderly women getting poked, Transsexual 3-way Fun, Gangbangs 3,  Incest Fantasies, Down on the Farm,  Raw Pussy Hardcore Beatdown, Teens Bound 2 Cum,  Forced Fucking,  Hardcore Bitches-n-Pets.   I was in absolute shock but tried to look outwardly like I was okay with this.  I mean, I was such a people pleaser at this point in my life, God forbid, I might offend him by looking like the wind just got knocked out of me.

After viewing the titles, I deferred to him to pick one out and he picked one of the more violent films.  We sat naked in bed and began to watch.    The movie began with the young girl literally being first verbally degraded by two men.   I cringed.   Then it escalated with her being slapped across her face numerous times.  He sat motionless.   Then they began beating her down.   Kicking her a few times while she begged for them to stop.  More intense slapping, choking her, all the while degrading her verbally.  I watched in horror, not just at the film but more so at him.  For as he watched, he quickly got an erection with each scream she made, each plead, as the violence being inflicted upon her increased, the harder he got.   Conversely, I was so calcified from watching as if reflexively, I did put my bathrobe on.

I realised at that moment, I was sitting in bed with a sexual sadist.

And yet, my emotional connection to him wouldn’t allow me believe that.  I wanted to believe that this was just some sort of small piece of him.  That this couldn’t possibly real. Because he had the capability of being sweet.  Gentle.  Caring.  Yet this, what I was taking in right here, right now was incompatible with that sweet man.   This was a dichotomy.   One that I could not explain.  So I stuffed it away down into the recesses of myself where I could not even hear my own thoughts.

However, somewhere in me, deep down, I knew that the dream I had with this man of marriage, a home, raising kids, and a dog named Scruffy was all about to go right out the proverbial window.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

Of Mice and Monsters II

It smelled of mold and mildew down there.  The air always had a cold damp quality to it.  Because of my asthma, I had never liked going there.  All the walls were entirely lined with neat rows of shelf-stable food.  Enough for a small family to survive an Armageddon.  I always thought it strange.  Then there was the safe.   The massive safe hidden behind the stairs.  Standing at well over 6 feet high, it was large enough with which to store a body.

All throughout our relationship, I was never permitted there while he opened the safe.  It was always one of those unspoken rules.   The mystery that shrouded the safe added to my wonderment of its contents.  The only light was from the lone 60-watt bulb dangling from the ceiling.  There were two dirty tiny windows meant only to allow light and ventilation.  They were both sealed tightly shut.

He was cooking spaghetti and meatballs that night and asked me to run down to grab a can of diced tomatoes.  I headed downstairs and began searching the shelves for the requested item.

Suddenly I heard him shut the basement door and then slide the metal chain latch  over.  Then I heard his footsteps on the floorboards above me trail away.

I bolted up the stairs heart racing and called out his name all the while feverishly trying the door handle in hopes it would open.  It did not.

He did not answer.

It hit me then.  The sheer and absolute terror.  The blood in my veins ran cold as I realized I have become entombed in this cellar.

I yelled at the top of my lungs and began pounding my fists on the door, “PLEASE!!! PLEASE!!! I’m begging you!!Let me out!!!

Still no answer.

More screaming, more begging, more pounding on the door,” I’m BEGGING you to please come back, I don’t have my inhaler, please let me out!!”

Silence.

My tears turned to full on sobs realizing I would might never get out of this basement.  My mind began to race:   Would I die from an asthma attack and suffocate or would I die from thirst/dehydration since there was only food down here but no water.    That I would never get to say goodbye to my family….

Seemed like seconds turned to minutes and each minute felt like an eternity.

When suddenly I heard his footsteps again and then the metal chain sliding to unlock the door.

“Why are you crying?” he laughed, “You didn’t think I was going to leave you down there forever did you?” He chuckled,” I was just fooling around with you.”  He pulled me in close and hugged me.   I felt relief, repulsion, anger….   The Stockholm Syndrome with which I was quite familiar, was unfolding right in front of me.  I simply couldn’t see it.

I don’t know how long I was actually locked down there.    It was long enough to know that I was not dealing with a garden variety “Daddy-Dom” into some weekend kink.

In retrospect, I think that’s why I stayed.  He intrigued me.  I thought with all my psychological acumen, I’d find out what made him tick.  But by then it was nearly too late for that.  For what I’ve failed to mention….was that by then I was in love with the monster.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

Of Mice and Monsters

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When I was a child and had a nightmare, right at the point where I knew the monster would “get”me, I thought it better to try to befriend the creäture.

I believed in doing so, this may spare me from being devoured.  I kept the authentic me, hidden from the monster.  The façade of being its friend, enabled me to survive those long wretched nights.

My childhood was riddled with nightmares.  Sadly during my days, I was hunted by the profane personified.

My nocturnal brain wiring to cope with the unacceptable.

~~~~~~~

The first indication I had that he may have been a monster, was the night he asked me to kneel naked in the porcelain tub.   He told me this would be fun.

I complied.

He stood naked next to me.   I waited for what seemed a long time.    I looked up at him.   Still waiting.   Wondering.    Then…..

Right as I asked,” what are we doing?”  He urinated in my face; right at my mouth.

He erupted into peels of laughter, over and over again watching me as I spit and grimaced.

I don’t think I have ever tasted anything so acrid in all my life.  I hope I never will.

When he could see that I was angry for what he had done, he apologized.  I knew it was fake but accepted it anyway.

My acceptance of his fake apology was perhaps the beginning of my courtship,  with a real-life monster.  One so dark and empty, I could have never imagined.

 

 

Good Girl

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I don’t care what you have ever seen or read about Fifty Shades of Grey,  it’s all bullshit.  At the outset, all I want is to please and want to do what he says and all that; I guess it IS like that.    And I suppose in the beginning maybe I would’ve eaten a piece of dog-shit or something for him.

But this was 3 years in.   And the lashings with his cane and whip or hand or paddle had grown kind of old .    And the formality of saying “yes, daddy” had worn me thin.

One particular night, he had bragged he wanted to make me bark like a dog.

One of his fucked-up whims I guess.

Like any good girl I told him to fuck off  that I wasn’t going to  bark like any dog .   He insisted and dragged me to the bed and said,” then I will make you.”

I quipped ,”no matter how many times you take the cane to me, or the flogger, or the paddle,   you will not make me bark like a dog. It’s just not going to happen. You will not break me.”

The proverbial gauntlet had been thrown and I knew it.  But I was confident that I would be the victor.  That he would tire before I.

He threw down lash after lash.  Each time stopping long enough to pause and ask, “are you going to bark now?”

With each blow I tried to deal with the pain by biting into the comforter hard, as he bore down into my flesh.  Now, some submissives are masochists but I am not.  Some go to a dissociative place and leave their body, I did not.  I just bit down and braced for it.   Maybe I’ll write Submissives for Dummies as a helpful guide on how to take a lashing and more.   I’m certain it would be a bestseller….Pffft.

I was already bruised from his blows and felt it but didn’t want him to win.  I hate losing.  I despise weakness.   At the next go round, I’d grown angry.  I asked, “If our roles were reversed I wonder how many lashings you could take? Oh that’s right you would have pussied out by now.”

Then he hit me harder and atop of the bruises he had just inflicted.  Dirty….dirty…. underhanded bastard I thought.

I knew in that moment he would win.

He leaned in and asked for the final time, “are you ready to bark yet?

Woof.”  I said quietly. 

He said, “say it louder.

SMACK!!!!! 

WOOF!” I yelled.

That’s my good girl, ” he replied.

Initially I wanted to be him that day, the one with all the power; the one wielding the implements.   But then I realized that I had power of a different sort.  That this sexual sadist craved me.  I was his canvas and he needed to mainline me.  By me pushing his buttons and challenging him, I created how this entire night went.

Good girl indeed.

Butterfly

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I’ve got a new man in my life, “B”.

He’s different from my ex,  the sadist that captured my heart (and still does) and drew me to him like a moth to a flame.

B seems so nice and kind.  He possesses a temperate demeanor.  He continues to dote on me which I am NOT used to.  He listens when I speak.  NOT used to that either.

He buys me small gifts,  takes me out to dinner, lavishes me with affection and attention.  NOT handling that well AT all.  can’t.  Makes me feel like I will end up”owing” him somehow.   I don’t like to “owe” men shit.

****

All of this frightens me and makes me recoil inside, outside I keep up appearances and maintain my usual pleasant demeanor.

****

I feel great trepidation.  You see, men historically have kept hidden agendas with me.  There is always a “quid pro quo” thing at play.   There are always strings attached.  Sexual strings.  And I am ever wondering what B wants from me.  What price I will have to pay? What will I have to “do” in the end?  Is it real?  Is this just another illusion, mirage? another wolf in sheep’s clothing?  It’s like I am flying in a plane with faulty radar that is ill-equipped at detecting incoming missiles.   I went over B’s house and found a home-made sadistic bondage device in his basement right next to his nautilus equipment….yet he says, that he doesn’t feel the need to do BDSM things with me.   I saw his bag of tricks.  The usual stock any Dominant carries.  Basic shit:  ball gags, suspension stuff, crops, floggers, rope, chains, et cetera.

*****

I’ve done BDSM and kink.  I find it more and more difficult not to want to re-engage with him on that level sexually.  There’s this incredible passion and chemistry we have.  But what he didn’t know, is that I am NOT a submissive.   I listed that on my alt.com profile for years, because that was partly true.  There wasn’t a box that could even define what I am.  Switch, no domme/dominatrix? No.  Oh no,  I am his equal and a worthy adversary at that.      I think he thinks, that I am going to kneel before him and whatever.  Pffft.  don’t think so.   He best pray he doesn’t engage with me.   He will get the surprise of his life.  It may well be the end of me and B.    He has major control issues like all dominant’s do.  So do I.  There’s only room for one to drive this ship and it aint gonna be him LOL.

*****

Once upon a time, long ago, I was a butterfly.

In my last relationship with my ex , he tore off part of my wing, so he could keep me in his glass case and look at me anytime he wanted.   Sure it hurt, the sting of his crop and cane, his flogger, his teeth on my flesh.   All the profane things he did.  But I got used to it, because I truly believed that if I did all that, he would love me in the end.   The pain was also lessened too, because I loved him and I loved how he looked at me, how I felt like I was the center of his universe.    Time passed though, and eventually,  he saw something shiny and forgot I was in that case.  Over time, I began to wither.   Then one day he opened the jar and threw me on the grass.  My wing although injured, functioned enough for me to make it off that lawn.

*****

To be with B I feel I’ve let go of how I really am.  I keep it all inside.  He doesn’t know the authentic me.   I am just going through the motions.  Performing perfunctory actions of life as I must because I am so fucking depressed.  Allowing him to shape and mold me into whatever he wants me to become.  Just yesterday he came over and bought me shampoo and conditioner because he felt that I deserve “the best.”  I felt insulted.  “fuck you” I thought to myself, “my hair isn’t good enough for you.”   but that’s not what came out.  “thanks, thanks so much B.”  I feel choked, smothered, suffocated at times.   I feel like a trained pet for his amusement and if I slip up with the script, if I deviate a fucking millimeter, all bets are off.  Oh yeah, and he wants me to call him Daddy.   And the shit kicker is that like a well-trained chimp, I do.

*****

Falling from grace with my shrink and having her see me as…………feeling so ashamed around her.    I can’t tolerate it.  I fucking hate that feeling of burning shame.    Then also, feeling that at any given moment B is about to throw me away if I don’t do things according to his specs; people wonder why I want to run back to my ex LOL.  Sure he’s a sadist asshole, but a predictable asshole.

*****

Step right up and throw your coins down folks and she’ll dance for you…….she’ll dance the night away~

Just drink the Kool-aid

Today’s session with the shrink was rough.  Nothing fun about sitting and  have them stare at you while you try to cough up your feelings that are too painful and shameful to utter aloud.  So instead you put on a good personae and artfully try to dodge the elephant sitting on your heart that you wish you had the balls to say, but your too much of a pussy to.  For if you do, you can risk looking like an asshole or worse getting hurt.

It took me awhile to get the courage up to spit out what I was hemming and hawing about saying for 40 minutes.  Nearly the entire session.

It has taken me weeks to get to the point of even mustering that up.  The emotions carry that much shame for me to say.

The thing I said well, it makes me feel weak, embarrassed, vulnerable, powerless.   All feelings I HATE.  All feelings I don’t have skills to tolerate very well.

But I did finally spit it out, because I want to get well and I think that puking up what’s hard to do, will get me there.

*****

I guess I’m blindsided by her response.

She was like, “no, you don’t really feel that way do you?” and she kinda laughed.

Then I felt humiliated on top of the existing shame…..  Mother fucker.   I wanted to crawl into the nearest hole and die.

She has no fucking idea.   And that’s largely my fault.  For the better of thirty fucking years I have learned to “present well,” so that no one knows what’s really going on.

I do it so well, I can mostly turn it off and on like a light switch…..mostly.

*****

Sitting there in that chair in her office feeling ashamed, it flooded my brain with similar events that I tried to bury a long time ago.

Especially the young, impish, fractured, splintered off part of myself I thought I could seal behind a wall and bury alive.

But that girl’s muffled voice broke through from behind the bricks today choking back her pitiful fucking tears.

*****

There she is again, from behind the woman veneer.

Stirring somewhere from latent consciousness.

Crystallized….and I’m still paralyzed.

I seem to walk through life, reflexively, a continuous loop of internal thought patterns,“I am bad.  unliked,  unwanted,  unaccepted….. I am un-lovable.”

*****

When I told my shrink how I felt about her, she replied that I must be wrong……  It stung.   Walls went up.

Usually, I reject me before anyone else can hurt me.    Well, I fucked up.

******

I am ashamed….of me.

I am realizing that shame is a bigger part of my emotional make-up than I ever knew. It’s inescapable presence envelops me like a blanket.

If I don’t deal with “it”, I will continue to live in misery.

Before today’s session I might have passed for an average girl, walking with a seeming look of purpose, unfettered by any stress. And in some ways, I guess that would have been true.

I left however, restricting my gaze downward to the cobblestone street, tears staining my cheeks, reflecting the ugliness I still hold inside.

Ugliness from which I haven’t been yet able to wriggle free.

*****

BDSM and bondage isn’t always about rope and submission.

The riskiest scenes take place on the inside, with the chains that bind our very soul.

Revenge

Gustave Doré’s Illustration in Milton’s “Paradise Lost”

“It is easy–terribly easy–to shake a man’s faith in himself.  To take advantage of that to break a man’s spirit is devil’s work”

–George Bernard Shaw

~*~      ~*~     ~*~

I am not proud to admit this but lately I am filled with bitterness and resentment.  No wait, that would be a gross fucking understatement.  Enough anger floats through my stream of consciousness, that I have fantasies and daydreams that I tell my shrink about.  Fantasies not of a happy return to my ex,  but fantasies of how to exact revenge upon him.  How to bring him to his fucking knees with the same emotional gut wrenching state of pain that he has inflicted upon me, so that he knows what it’s like.   There is a huge difference between fantasy and reality and I know that difference.  I am not stupid enough to throw my life away over a man or end up serving fifteen to life over a total narcissistic sociopath.  In the end I want to heal.

But that’s the shit kicker anyway.  Even in fantasy it’s all a moot point.   One can not exact revenge upon a narc sociopath.

My spirit is broken, he has given me immense suffering time and time again.  Thoughts of revenge bring me no solace, for revenge requires that person to have emotions.  In my particular case I don’t think this applies.  My ex just doesn’t possess emotions.  He wanders through life using women (people really) and discarding them as he sees fit.  For he does not have a conscience.  This lack of conscience is the hallmark of a true sociopath, that coupled with an appeal to one’s pity.  Seems as though some are born without one.

“Conscience is the window of our spirit, evil is the curtain.”

—-Doug Horton

~*~    ~*~    ~*~

Kubler Ross speaks of five phases of Loss and/or Grief.  These do not follow a linear path by any means.  One can weave in and out of them many times over.  One may start in anger, then move to depression, then back to denial and so forth:

1.  Denial

2.  Anger

3.  Bargaining

4.  Depression

5.   Acceptance

It would seem that I find myself at present, smack in the middle of the anger phase with the loss of this nearly 4 year relationship.  I am VERY angry about all the shit he has done to me and I am even MORE angry at myself that I allowed him to do this shit to me and didn’t have the health to shove him to tim-buck-two and send him back to hell from whence he came.

Knowing that wherever he is, he’s as happy as a pig in shit, makes me cringe even more.  While I, the one with a conscience and soul suffer.  There is no switch, where I can compartmentalize and shut my emotions off and go on my merry way.  Wouldn’t that be fucking great.  Wouldn’t it be nice to walk through life like him, only mimicking human emotion?  An actor playing the part of a human being for a day, an hour or two? and then returning to a hedonistic pleasure spree unaffected by guilt or remorse.

I’m not sure.  Because he will also never know other emotions as well.   He will never know the beauty of joy, love, warmth, or wanting to stare into a lovers eyes captivated by their very soul.  For he is an empty vessel.  Vacuous.  Vapid.  Vacant.   Through and through.

I don’t like how I feel today.

And I do feel shame when I say, that I wish for at least one day he would know and bear the pain that I feel.