Author's Note

 

This story was sent to me anonymously along with the following email.

 

Dear Diana,

Attached is the story of my submission. I don't expect anyone to believe it. I hardly believe it myself, but it did happen.

I never chose submission. In fact I was shocked the first time at how comfortable I was in being dominated, how much pleasure I got from pain. I was even more surprised that these strange feelings persisted into my ordinary life.

Being openly submissive, however, isn't easy especially for a spoiled overachiever like me. So, I created a personality that was normal in all respects--no tattoos, no piercings, no chains, no suggestive clothes, no edgy clubs, no outrageous friends. So far it's worked--no one suspects who or what I really am.

I've changed names and disguised events to remain anonymous, but everything else is accurate.

As for Dominus (also an alias), it exists. That's really all I can say.

Jennifer aka Sloan-67

 

Chapter 1 - Instinct to Submit

 

Imagine you are in a dark place, one so black that you can't tell if your eyes are open or shut. You're naked; your arms are bound behind your back and pulled up high, forcing you to bend forward at the waist; your legs are spread, held open by a wooden pole tied between your ankles. There's a rubber ball strapped in your mouth and weighted clamps on your nipples.

The clamps spawn flashes of pure pain, but these fade quickly as the gnawing builds in your shoulders. This is only an irritation at first--you have strong arms and you're model thin--but the pain grows until you begin to measure time by its intensity. You stand high on your bare toes, flex your muscles, cave your knees, anything for a moment's relief, but there is no escape. The agony spreads to your back and legs and you groan in time with the pain. Your muscles are on fire, your body is twisting and writhing without dignity. You don't care, nothing matters now but the monstrous waves of indescribable torment.

You try to scream through the gag only to watch your drool collect between your feet. Suddenly, his boots appear. You raise your head and part your lips then move your ass in an open invitation. He laughs and raises a whip. You close your eyes in surrender then beg for it, desperately plead to have the lash savage your unprotected skin. Nothing matters now except escaping the strappado.

He nods and repositions your arms in front then removes the nipple clamps. You feel resurrected even as the awful pain of blood rushing back into starved muscles courses through your body.

The whip cuts the air and you feel each terrible strand striking your ass with the full strength of a man's arm. The effect of leather on bare skin is breathtaking and you scream silently, then again, then again. Your head shakes and your body torques violently in its suffering. He must feel pity...he must...but there's no mercy in him. The whipping continues until his arm tires. Immediately, he pushes a vibrator into your cunt and in seconds you're panting, drooling like an animal gone wild. You scream for release and he nods his permission. Somewhere inside there's a muffled explosion then your entire body shakes with sudden mind-numbing shudder. The tremulous aftershocks go on forever.

This is my secret life, my personal Hell that I endure willingly, even eagerly. You might wonder why. I could answer that the depth of my pain is equal to the height of my pleasure...which it is; that life is too bland, too boring without such extremes...which it is; that my feeling toward my torturer, my master, is not hate but rather a deep adoring love wrapped in abject terror...which it is.

But these answers would be bullshit. These are just reasons, neat entries in a cosmic ledger that we feel compelled to balance. The truth is that my submission is chaos, mystery. I have no explanation for it, no quid pro quo reasoning, no neat syllogism or logic to defend my consent. It is who I am; it defines me, but I don't know why. Perhaps you can find the answer in the words that follow. If not, maybe you can appreciate the awesome power of my compulsion and understand the choice I made, or at least hate me less for it.

***

I was born into wealth--a Greenwich estate, a South Hampton vacation home, a Manhattan pied-à-terre, five luxury cars, and live-in servants. We never described ourselves this way. On the contrary, my parents were adamant in denying that we were "privileged." Instead, they insisted that they worked for their money and claimed no affiliation with or affection for those idle-rich who relied on inherited wealth and trust funds.

This wasn't true of course. They had inherited their money just as their idle-rich friends had done. They had also inherited their trophy- jobs, of which they were so proud, through a network of family connections and friends, a kind of welfare for rich people.

Naturally, they hid these facts. They didn't jive at all with the image they wanted to project nor did they support the argument that they had earned their wealth and with it their right to the unconscionably excessive lifestyle they lived. Most importantly, this reality didn't provide them any of the unearned pride they felt--Dad was the (titular) head of his family firm, a commodities trading company, and Mom was a Park Avenue law partner in charge of pro-bono (who-cares-who-wins) cases.

Their alternative reality was a convenient truth, one that they expected me to accept without question. To ensure this, they crafted my childhood with the focus of a master clock maker--every nanny and friend I ever had, every school and club I attended, every affair was carefully selected to drive home the idea that we were productive members of society rather than well-spoken parasites. It was the same fiction that every aristocracy promotes to survive.

In theory, their efforts with me should have worked out just fine. My friends slipped into their roles with hardly a ripple...but I did not. I guess a wire got crossed in my brain or an errant thought somehow slipped through. Whatever the reason, at an early age I started to voice the heretical view that their contributions perhaps were not as wonderful as they represented, that maybe it was just damned good luck that we were rich, and that I was not obligated to prove myself worthy by finding an appropriate power job.

Blasphemy! You would have thought that I was arguing to acquit the Menendez brothers. My normally aloof, standoffish parents were suddenly in my face all the time; they became zealots in promoting the idea that people like them (the "working rich") were the captains of industry and finance, the lifeblood of the American way of life. It was my solemn duty to "make a contribution" just like them...period.

I resisted this idiotic self-serving argument for most of my teenage years until one day I realized that I was never going to win. They were programmed to believe and to act in a certain way and no mere words from me was going to change that. I decided to go underground, to bury my heretical opinions under a thick layer of teenage condescension.

Suddenly, I was a model child once again and we were all able to return to our approved lives. This was unquestionably the most important lesson of my childhood--sometimes it's better to have a secret than it is to win an argument, especially if you don't care what people think.

I begin with this background because I want make it clear that I didn't come to submission as a pampered debutant trying to rebel or some rich bitch looking for thrills. Living with my delusional parents had taught me the difference between truth and bullshit and that actions have consequences. This was my second revelation, the one that provided the foundation for my adult life.

Chapter 2 - Freshman Year

 

My first time with bondage was an eye-opener. I was in college, experimenting with a boy who had enough courage to inflame my passions, but not enough experience to make me understand that this was my destiny.

In our last encounter, he tied me naked to a bed, an old four-poster that didn't budge no matter how hard I pulled. My arms and legs were stretched so tightly that my ass was lifting my swollen cunt to the same height as my rock-hard nipples.

I could feel his eyes on me and I knew that it would only be a matter of time before he was pushing his engorged cock into my warm pussy, perhaps lifting my head to fuck me in the mouth. I knew that he might also hurt me, inflict pain for no reason other than because it gave him pleasure. The loss of control, the feeling of total helplessness was terrible and...stimulating, I felt an excitement beyond anything I'd ever imagined.

I had already determined that ordinary sex just wasn't my thing. All that humping and grinding left me feeling bored and unfulfilled. This was totally different. He hadn't even touched me and I was wet, dripping with anticipation. I could feel the blood pumping in my lips and nipples and my skin tightening. My fingers and toes kept curling and pointing as if trying to discharge the energy that was building inside. For me, this was the real thing.

I knew that he was going to force me to participate, force me to forget my sophisticated responses and react like an animal in heat, a human female, one designed by nature to attract her male counterpart. It was this delicious lack of control that made it all of this so explosive, so irresistible.

I licked my lips and turned my head away, remembering how it had all started.