The warm water runs down the length of my hair, the sunlight spills in and reflects off of the tile. I find myself ruminating on random memories from my childhood, and smiling ruefully. Memories that reinforce why I am so glad I am on this dominatrix journey, and why I know this is truly meant for me.
I remember sun-dappled trees, a sad excuse for a creek that ran behind our elementary school. I remember the first friend I made that was a boy. He had golden hair and a gap-toothed smile, and he said I could always make him laugh. That had meant a lot to me, as quiet as I usually was. I didn’t share a lot of words, but when I did, I chose them carefully. And he noticed.
I remember him encouraging me to chase him and catch him under those trees, next to that creek. I remember the dust we kicked up. He was fast and tall, and as small and lithe as I was, I was always laughably uncoordinated. I would trip and skin my knees and the heels of my hands…a lot. Eventually he’d let me catch him, and he’d fall down to the ground dramatically and pretend to die. I would climb atop him in the dirt and strike various poses to show off my prowess. Once he said that if I catch him again I should kiss him. What a curious thing that was to me. I had never kissed before.
Eventually he let me catch him again, and I remember mashing my lips against his faithfully. It was a mess, to say the least. He said, “Now I have to try to get away, but don’t let me”. I laughed at this new weird game, but acquiesced. He began to buck and thrash under me while I held down his arms and giggled. “I’m your prisoner so don’t let me get away,” he reminded me breathlessly, when my giggling fit became too much to hold him down properly. I remember the thrill that blossomed into a building warmth in my blood- the thrill of being on top, of holding him down, of watching him smile while he thrashed. I was too young to even understand the sexual implications, but I remember very clearly that I felt three succinct things: I was in control, I loved to watch him squirm, and I could have held him there forever, pinned underneath me.
Then I was in high school, in another state, and I met a goth boy online. We both had AOL and MSN messenger. We had met in real life through a mutual friend, and he said he thought I was beautiful. He was uniquely hilarious and a sparkling conversationalist. We would talk for hours and hours and hours. Just seeing his username or hearing the message alert would make my heart pound with anticipation. We both enjoyed dark humor, H.P. Lovecraft, striped scarves, eyeliner, and combat boots. He loved the dark art that I would draw and paint. I loved the horror stories he would write. We would burn CDs of our favorite songs and mail them back and forth- I still have the Misfits CD he made for me. One of our first dates was sneaking into a rated R horror movie together (I cried, he held me).
He would ask me to hold him down while we kissed. He liked to be spanked and to incorporate food into sex. He asked to suck on my toes and my fingers. He asked to worship me. He wanted me to bite him during sex, and hard. He confessed he enjoyed the fantasy of Vore and that the idea of being consumed turned him on in a way he couldn’t fully articulate. He liked the concept of cutting and blood play.
Everything he brought up was so incredibly exotic to me after my sheltered childhood. I found it all so fascinating. I vowed to never shame him for the things I couldn’t understand, and to experiment with all the things that we could together.
I think about the countless relationships that came after, and the brief dark period of two and a half years when I tried to date the person that reflected my abusive parent. I’ll never forget how many fires they extinguished inside of me. I can still smell the bitter smell of wet smoke from my passions being snuffed out. I’m still relearning how to rekindle those childhood fires inside me and how to fight back against the ugly words that will occasionally come back to echo in my head when I’m at my lowest.
I think about my current spouse, and how we’ve developed together to be as completely open as possible. How we’ve experimented, and how we’ve learned that nothing is static, nothing is stationary. How we’ve grown something unique and beautiful together despite the struggles and ugliness on the outside. I think about the strap on training kit I’ll be buying for them soon, and how it will be a surprise.
I think about how I always enjoyed learning about the kinks of others, and how I loved to help them reach new heights by pushing their limits within the boundaries we laid out together. I think about how satisfying it is to tie a good knot, to see my sub helpless and prostrate before me. To see their mouth working beneath a blindfold as they try to anticipate what’s coming next. The little yelps of surprise that dissolve into contented sighs.
I think about all of these memories: past, recent, and present. Then I turn off the shower, step out into the rays streaming through the window, and smile.
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Thank you for reading.