Chapter One

The Care and Feeding of a Submissive

 

Call me Ivey Marks, the way I autograph my paintings, although Mom insisted that checks for my work be made out to Igor Vladimir Marks, my legal name. But, as of January 3, 2008, all of the income from my artistic efforts belongs to Sable Brandenburg.

Sable owns me, too, because of the way our lives unfolded: I, as a submissive, and Sable as a Domme, or Domina. This story explains my side of the equation while leaving the tale of Sable's development to another narrator.

Maintaining the Domme-slave symbiosis is a complex challenge-to use Sable's terms-for both the Domina and her submissive. Sable's theorem for this balancing act is the Pi Differential, which she put into practice with her first husband and with me.

The depth of Sable's analysis catches men by surprise, leading one narrator to refer to her finesses as "Ambush in Scarlet Satin." Outwardly, she projects a Blonde Bombshell mystique, seeming to rely on her glamour and physicality instead of her Master's degree in psychology. Even so, Sable emphasizes that she's not a therapist by training or education.

The Domina/sub dynamic, Sable says, links a sadistic woman with a masochistic man. She's expressed conflicting opinions about Leopold von Sacher-Masoch, the "first masochist." When Richard von Krafft-Ebing chose Leopold's surname as the eponym in Psychopathia Sexualis in characterizing people who enjoy pain-masochists-Leopold strongly objected, contending that he relished suffering at the hands of a woman to prove how much he loved her. He denied seeking pain for its own sake.

Sable thought Leopold raised an important distinction: Love was his goal, and suffering was his means of proving his love. But she criticized Leopold for dabbling in submission, noting that he signed temporary contracts for women to own him. Sable demands my permanent fealty.

My childhood prepared me to submit. Our family dynamics nurtured my preference for following a woman instead of leading her in a relationship.

Mom, Kitty Kerensky Marks, named me Igor Vladimir because of what she considered her Russian descent-actually Ukrainian. In early Russian history, the two countries were so tightly linked that Kyiv was considered the first major Russian city. Mom, a third-generation American, considered herself a loyal U.S. citizen above all else, but her ancestors in the Motherland still fascinated her.

As for my name, people often misspell my surname as Marx, especially Boomers because of their lingering hang-up with Cold War Communism.

Mom opined that Russia was blessed with noble people who withstood harsh challenges, only to be cursed with cruel and/or inept leaders. Ironically, Mom's favorite Russian monarch, Catherine the Great, was not Russian but a Prussian noble imported to wed the feckless Peter III, whom Catherine soon overthrew. After taking the throne, Catherine showed how deeply she loved her adoptive country by launching a flourishing renaissance throughout the land, especially at the Hermitage in St. Petersburg, where Catherine assembled the world's largest art collection.

Mom also treasured Russian literature. Her love of Anna Karenina seemed a bitter mockery of her own life. Unlike the passionate Anna, Mom did not have an affair with "the other man" but still suffered a fate eerily similar to Anna's. I came to realize, however, that Mom's life imitated art in a quirky way that I didn't recognize at the time.

Dad downplayed my Slavic roots and reminded everybody that Marks is a perfectly good English surname shared by several nationalities. Still, I got tired of explaining "Igor Vladimir" to schoolmates who addressed me as "Comrade"-infuriating Mom, who hated the Soviet Union's dictatorship. If a woman had tyrannized the USSR, however, Mom would have been delighted! Nothing would have pleased her more than seeing a reincarnated Catherine the Great ruling modern Russia.

Anyway, I started going by the phonetic sound of my initials, I.V, arbitrarily adding the e to the spelling of Ivey.

Dad was a salesman in every sense of the word because of his propensity for pedaling himself as the urbane sophisticate who'd made his mark in the world more than once. ("Marks-plural," he'd banter.) He streamlined his deadly-dull name of Malcolm Lumley Marks to Mac L. Marks-clueless that it sounded like "mackle marks," which are blurred impressions in printing. "Mackle Marks" nailed Dad's dodgy character, but not his looks. Cutting a dashing figure with his cobalt eyes and raven hair, he accented his slender, five-nine figure with tailored Brooks Brothers suits. His resemblance to a mini-Superman, or at least Clark Kent sans glasses, needed only the square jaw to complete the image.

Alas, his chin curved softly. But fear not. His features endeared him to the ladies: female coworkers and women who bought the goods he was selling (personally and professionally). During his longest occupational gig, he sold computers and technical services, pitching his proposals to office staff women at each company on his prospect list. They swooned over his mastery of geeky details-although he actually relied on his female sales associates or clerical staff to feed him the answers to the customers' technical questions. Sometimes, as a standing joke, a woman in the home office would literally blow in Dad's ear, and he'd croon, "Thanks for the refill."

In those rare moments of honesty, he all-but boasted of being an airhead and the office bimbo-a derisive word originally applied to aimless males, not women (notice the masculine "o" in "bimbo"). Dad probably would've been fired in his first month on the job if he hadn't racked up gaudy sales figures, mostly on the strength of his looks and charm-and a little help from his female accomplices.

I've based my word-sketch of Dad on photos, letters, and conversations with his few close friends and many associates. People who've sat for my portraits (mostly women) talk freely and revealed many details about Dad. Those who knew him intimately call him the consummate manipulator and a dandy who could charm his way out of anything-especially responsibility. Sorry to sound so cynical. I'd present a more-balanced picture of Dad if he'd stuck around to tell his side of the story.

But Dad bailed on us when I was in the fifth grade, leaving Mom to raise me by herself. She already ran the household because of her Alpha personality and never broke stride, despite the predictable-but-abrupt crisis of becoming a single parent. Mom toiled as the industrious ant from Aesop's Fable while Dad played the carefree grasshopper-and peacock.

Mom was pretty and effervescent, more striking than beautiful by popular norms, proudly wearing her no-frills brown hair as a badge of the Responsible Parent. Under the circumstances, you can see why I prefer Mom over Dad, although they've both departed this earth. Mom not only took care of me but also encouraged my painting and doted on my work.

To give Dad his due, he and I enjoyed good times, too, before he left. We'd toss around the football or baseball in the courtyard surrounded by our apartment building and five others. We'd go see the Braves when we could afford it-although sports bored me. The idea of an entire roster of players wearing the same outfit assaulted my streak of individualism, especially in wearing what I liked, not what was popular.

Movies formed our strongest bond. More than just watching films together, Dad and I talked about them, even critiqued them-as much as a ten-year-old could- especially Star Wars, Back to the Future, Airplane, and other action-comedy flicks.

Dad loved to ferret out classic cinema on TV. He preferred film noir, but I thought the plots of those hardboiled tales were too similar. I did, however, engross myself in the stark shadows, Dutch angles, and other distinctly visual qualities of noir masterpieces like The Third Man. I also developed wild, secret crushes on each Femme Fatale. Alida Valli portrayed Anna in The Third Man as the ultimate ballbuster at the end of the movie.

Some films proved too outré for TV, but Dad managed to find catalogues for VHS tapes of those bizarre treats. Satan in High Heels, for example, directly addressed Femdom. I enjoyed seeing the Femme Fatale walk away unpunished at the end but felt disappointed that she lost her dominant role.

My guiltiest pleasures involved assertive women subjugating their lovers: Marlene Dietrich as Lola Lola in The Blue Angel. Or Jennifer Jones as Ruby Gentry. But especially Jean Peters as real-life swashbuckler Anne Bonny in Anne of the Indies. Because Mom's marriage to Dad was so unfair to her, watching strong female characters on the screen temporarily gratified my sense of justice by tilting the balance toward the distaff side. And I imagined myself as their slave.

The Queen of Kink, at least in one of her many continuing-adventure roles, had to be Linda Stirling, whose character took over Zorro's crusade against evil after some screenwriter wrote the masked hero out of the script with a fictional death. Zorro's female successor called herself Zorro's Black Whip in the twelve-part 1944 serial. A gorgeous woman riding around lashing men? Take me to her! Oh, that serial was so far ahead of its time!

Dad was gifted at finding movies like Ms. Stirling's Western outlier and other rare gems tinged with Femdom. He vetoed Deadlier than the Male with Elke Sommer from the Femdom canon because the male villain in that movie played Lion King, dispatching his pride of lionesses to eliminate his male enemies. Dad-perhaps because of guilt about his failure as a husband-cherished storylines with dominant women. As I matured, I critically examined what motivated him to root around in such content. But mostly I tried to forget Dad because of one disturbing-yet-riveting incident-the classic train wreck.

A few days before Dad left for parts unknown, I caught him standing in his and Mom's bedroom with a flashy blonde woman. Wearing scanty black lingerie-panties and bra, shiny black stockings, draping herself in a sheer black negligee-she leaned forward to rest her elbows on Mom's vanity. I strained to look at her posterior, but Dad was standing behind her, blocking my view. My imaginary vision of her rump probably tantalized me precisely because I couldn't see her actual posterior.

Her curvy body, impudent face, and ebony intimate apparel cast a decadent spell, enhancing her mystique-and what developed into her sex appeal, as I recalled the scene-precisely because she was partially undressed. By keeping on her black gloves, she looked uber wicked! Total nudity would have looked innocent by comparison. Instead, her black lingerie brazenly highlighted and flaunted her lewdness and added a dash of what I later associated with raw sensuality-raunchiness.

What drew me so irresistibly to her lurid contrast of black and white? Maybe my fascination with the sharp contrasts in screen lighting for film predisposed me to savoring her pale skin set against inky dishabille.

But my visual hunger for black and white ran deeper. Did instinct guide my taste for a harsh stripping away of love and tenderness from raw lust? Did the woman unwittingly imprint me with lasting fetishes? Whatever the cause, I was spellbound by her curvy hips and derriere wrapped in wicked black panties-plus those gartered, glimmering stockings flashing patches of creamy flesh between the rim of her hose and her panties (unlike pantyhose, which cover all the skin) while her negligee coyly taunted me: a magic curtain that simultaneously obscured and displayed her physical riches. I was too young for her magnetism to arouse me sexually, but the Look she projected retroactively makes her look irresistibly seductive.

The Big Blonde-my first Femme Fatale in the flesh!-looked relaxed, leaning on the table and exhibiting unbridled glee, keenly watching Dad in the mirror while he lost all self-control.

Still wearing his underwear, he kept bumping into our visitor. The dark room obscured the details, and I turned away at times. But the Blonde's eyes flashed excitement and an expression resembling pain-the strain of grasping for ecstasy, I later decided-that riveted me with my primal artistic images of the Femme Fatale honing her wily craft of projecting decadent lust, ensnaring men who crave sex on the seamy side.

When she raised the impromptu curtain of her negligee, I think Dad slid down her panties. Flexing his knees, he lowered his torso and bumped upward forcefully.

Dad played the hungry submissive who compulsively chases the all-consuming Vixen and rejects vanilla intimacy, precisely because she metes out what he needs: self-destructive flings that lure him into guilt-ridden climaxes-not because he settles for cheap sex, but precisely because he craves robustly plugging into the electric socket to get an extra jolt from his thrills.

Through the years I've embroidered the theme: As the Femme Fatale's slave, Dad became the archetype of the roué wallowing ecstatically in his sinful subjugation (and ejaculations, as I later realized) to the sly "dumb blonde" who manipulates him with the expertise of an orchestra conductor. She nurtures his thirst for her magic potion: mixing a heavy dose of humiliation with the sexual thrills she doles out in phases to keep him addicted.

Most important, I gradually came to realize that the man's self-destructive urges are more responsible for his downfall than the woman's behavior. She's just giving him what he wants. A loving woman gives a man what he needs. So does a Domina.

I watched the pumped-up blonde, so to speak, gulp chunks of air to breathe.

The frantic blur of motion kept me from getting a sustained look at her face, and she avoided eye contact. But I know she noticed me watching her without acknowledging my existence.

Weaving through the surrealistic vision was a funky tune playing on her Walkman, which sat on the vanity table. The cheesy instrumental featured a tenor sax backed by piano and percussions playing over and over-because the Vixen had taped the same recording repeatedly to avoid having to interrupt her decadent seduction to change tapes. The raunchy number hinted at whiskey-fueled cheap thrills in a smoky hotel room.

Or, jump-cutting to another scene: dance music for strippers.

Ultimately, I came to realize the campy melody served as the Big Blonde's victory anthem, commemorating her sexual conquest of each victim, many of whom kept coming back for more.

Elements of that scene have essentially spoiled my wholesome concepts of sex, and I've also jumbled the sights and sounds-the ten-year-old's version blended with my jaded adult outlook, retrofitting the stereotype of musky, corrupt ecstasy onto that forbidden scene in the bedroom. My grasp of the fine points of that spectacle has weakened over time because I've tried to suppress it from my memory-especially that kitschy instrumental.

Reaching behind her back under the negligee, the woman unhooked her bra to let the cups hang loosely on the vanity top while she leaned over. Her body continued to writhe sensually to the beat of the music. I thought I saw Dad's hand slipping under her to hold her breast. I backed out of the room as quietly as I could, so awe-struck that I felt compelled to keep watching her. But even at ten years old, I realized I shouldn't be looking at what I was seeing, even though I couldn't understand exactly what was wrong. I just knew I had to get out of there!

I left the door ajar, the way I'd found it. Walking backwards down the hall, I heard the Big Blonde stamp her foot three times-still wearing her high heels-on the hardwood floor. Did her triple-stomp declare victory? Was she giving a signal? Or was the gesture merely a reflex action?

Then she made a peculiar demand: "Show me how much you love your fetish!"

I turned and ran through the hall, down the stairs, and out into the fresh outdoors.

I cannot unsee that spectacle. Those images and the ditty on the Walkman saturated my soul with gut-wrenching sensations that have permanently skewed my outlook on the male-female dynamic-to phrase my trauma in Sable's psychological terms.

Sable's first lover and "starter-husband," as she calls him, also had a fetish engraved in his mind at an even earlier age than my experience, a fixation that still irks Sable, primarily because of the particular source of that indelible vision on his heart-in some ways, warping him more than the Big Blonde twisted my perspective.

Despite constant searching, I didn't discover the title of her Walkman tune until it was too late. The recording never got radio air time, much less becoming a hit. But it formed my private, personal, musical theme for decadent sexual ecstasy, even though I only replay it silently in my mind. But I knew in my heart that I would recognize that instrumental if I ever heard it again.

And Dad's graphic performance in the bedroom that afternoon-more heat than light- punctuated his Femdom-movie legacy to me with a resounding, real-life exclamation point.

Mom, on the other hand, bequeathed me an enlightening heritage that saved me from the precipice of the gutter for the rest of her life-but not for the rest of my life.