Dominance, Submission and Asexuality

Yesterday morning I drove to east Texas. It was a timely reminder that Hell is a place on Earth; I’ve been visiting family in Houston for the holidays, and it helped frame what’s been on my mind in that interval as a sort of temporary exile. I’ve been considering lately whether I’m a bad dominant. I think I might be; but I’m not completely sure that I’m a bad dominant rather than simply being bad at being the type of dominant I intend to be. I’m pathetically ineffectual at providing discipline; I suspect that stems from a lack of self-discipline on my part. But boys – at least the boys I’m in relationships with, and those that I have been in relationships with over the last few years – need discipline, and need their dom(s) to provide it.

I discovered – or perhaps decided – a month or two ago, while discussing my own needs and desires as a submissive with my boyfriend and former master, Faberi, that as a submissive I need to be broken. That is not his style of dominance; it may even the primary void I felt as a submissive serving him and why that submission broke down.

Earlier this year, in perhaps February or March, I did a session with a local dom, in which he repeatedly smacked my bottom around the house, expecting a “thank you, Sir” each time. During that session I found it discordant, unpleasant; even irritating. It was certainly stressful. I had been and always expected to be obedient, demure, submissive as a sub; and I believe I consistently have been. I never expected, desired, or valued corporal punishment in the absence of bad behavior. And yet, there it was, and not even as punishment. Simply as an assertion of dominance, of the differential of status between us in that session. Later, and for the first time in my life, I was given a spanking. I had forgotten to bring an item he’d ordered me to bring; after spending some time tidying up his apartment, I had crawled to a place below him near where he sat on the couch, he asked me whether I thought I deserved punishment for forgetting. Obviously, in such a case, there is only one thing to say – and I said “yes, Sir,” with dread and apprehension, knowing that even his casual smacks throughout the evening had stung painfully. By that point I was exhausted; my wrists and knees hurt, sore from constant crawling; my neck was cramped from craning up to see things on all fours, hindered by a thick collar. Obediently I counted the blows; mercifully, for whatever reason, he only went to ten. He then alluded to getting a paddle to continue; nearly in tears (or in tears?), I think I mumbled something like “yes, Sir;” I don’t quite recall. He chose not to, though. Instead he then had me begin sucking his cock, a task I worked on quite inelegantly after many months’ respite from practice. This clumsiness bore a toll not in his express displeasure, nor in any further corporal punishment, but simply through extended duration. I sucked and sucked and sucked some more, neck cramping from the angle, from the collar; snot streaming out my nose, I’m embarrassed that I several times needed to slip off of him and ask to blow my nose (which he always allowed). He occasionally, briefly, throat-fucked me; each time I began gagging, and when vomit started to rise I pushed back, which he tolerated. Eventually I suppose he lost patience as my pace slowed over time: nose more congested, breath heavier, and endurance sapped. He jacked off to orgasm and pulled me over to feed me his cum.

After that point, he relaxed back on to his couch; some words were exchanged, and I think he offered me the opportunity to express what I’d like to do at that point. Sincerely I asked to rest, which he allowed; I laid in a fetal position beneath him, my nose resting atop one of his bare feet. Finally idle, the pressure on my knees and wrists relieved, the anxiety of what came next mollified (for, with each task I’d performed, I’d felt exhausted, and up to that point each had simply been followed by a new command), I actually relaxed. And, weirdly, it was everything I’d hoped for. For the first time I was aware of that evening my cock began to expand in my chastity cage. I was still tired, my limbs sore, my neck cramped; but the pressure was off and I could feel them relaxing. Gently, I began to nuzzle and kiss his feet–a task that earlier he’d ordered me to do, whether out of his own interest or from a desire to arouse me, given how fervently I’d expressed interest in foot worship prior to the session. Earlier, it had simply been yet another stressor; I’d not grown hard, nor enjoyed my forced prostrations and affections to his feet. But at that later point, being allowed simply to lay there and relax, I wanted to. Gratefully, humbly, and with slowly increasing passion, I explored first the foot I had rested my cheek against, and then then other. Mercifully, though he clearly noticed the renewed attention, he did not take my activity as a cue to put me back to work in some form, as I feared he might. Instead, shortly after, we wrapped up the night; I dressed and took his trash out on the way to my car.

I went home exhausted; I don’t recall whether I jacked off that night or the next day, but having no prohibitions against it I soon did so. And then, quite strongly, I felt an aversion to him and to the scene; that wasn’t what I wanted, what I enjoyed, how I imagined slavery should be. Why should there be pain in the absence of disobedience? Invited back, I demurred; I was sincerely uninterested and quite turned off for some time. I realized then that it was immensely stressful; I was drained. I couldn’t imagine doing that again. I think I mentioned to Faberi that it was hot but I didn’t think it was a good experience overall. Over the next month I found the dom’s communications honestly bothersome and annoying, and I concluded I had likely more than satisfied my need to be submissive for quite some time.

Over the last few days, I’ve stayed at my parents’ house: half a continent away from my own home, the boy who lives there with me, three other partners about an hour’s drive away, and Faberi four hours away by car but frequently available online, on Discord, to game with. At my parents’ house there is no opportunity for discord, or private socialization; I’ve been limited to relatively infrequent texting with my partners, and none of the other interactions I am so accustomed to. My parents tend to bore me, to be honest. We chat, and as they watch game shows I game on my laptop or browse the internet on my phone. Semi-frequently we play a simple card or tabletop game; often they bring me to this or that social function. We watched the quite enjoyable Ford vs Ferrari in theaters. But I spent vast swathes of time with little mental or social stimulation. Nature abhors a vacuum and, like any other animal, free time naturally engages drives to procreate in humans. Not being heterosexual, this mostly entailed browsing Recon, Collarspace, and Twitter; and, with a foray from a Recon profile, I remembered I had a Fetlife account as well. Absurdly, I reached out to new people; my life is far too full for new relationships, yet here I was messaging people who intrigued me as my phone screen dodged my parents’ inattentive gazes.

My exile to the god-forsaken South also provided not a deficit but a glut of something else: food. It was Thanksgiving, and like any family of proud imperialistic occupants of native soil we had appetizers and desserts and snacks to sate even the most American-sized appetite. My parents, having cooked and prepared the vast majority of an impressive surplus, constantly plied me with requests to have some of this or that. To my own surprise I deflected what felt like a majority of the offers, but those few that I succumbed to kept my appetite continually sated. Within two days of my arrival, I had no interest in any meal save breakfast – by the time lunch or dinner ought to be eaten, I had snacked my way to apathy, and I actually found it difficult to participate in what is a frankly important social ritual.

And so I came to that place at which we began: Sunday, the day of my return home, I went to visit a close friend some two hours’ drive northeast of my parents’ home. That morning we rose early to attend church; prior to the service I caught up on Recon messages with a new kinkster and re-initiated a conversation with one I’d met some time before, ruefully considering that I much more often used Recon while visiting my parents and yet never bothered to check it at home. After the service I slipped in a few more words with those two who had intrigued me, both subs who are to my eye rather beautiful, before borrowing the car keys and beginning my drive. Two hours through the middle of nowhere does wonders for the engine of my mind’s introspection. A short lunch later and I got yet another two hours – albeit punctuated with occasional stops in gas station parking lots to continue my Recon intrigues.

By this point it is not news to me that the session I recounted above was as enlightening as it was positive (which, in retrospect, it absolutely was); I had, as mentioned, already had that discussion with my boyfriend. Being broken, being torn down by work, stress, physical discipline; genuinely not having a good time and allowing myself not to have a good time, but being obedient throughout; and that sweet, sweet reward afterwards of rest, exposed, broken, humble capitulation and gratitude to the man using you finally eroticizes and provides context to the idea of training. And, far more than that, of submission, of being owned, of being changed, of being controlled. It allowed me, over the last however many months, to wonder if that wasn’t really the core of what was missing from my submissive experience. I deeply love and am extremely compatible as a person with Faberi; but being submissive in all the ways I fantasize about, bringing my own expectations and enacting them ultimately provided no staying power. I did all of it electively; the edge of anxiety, of fear, of fatigue, of being driven was something implicitly present in my fantasies but never consciously acknowledged. That has not been my his style, or at least not with me.

Would I, in fact, be happy as an owned lifestyle submissive in a 24/7 TPE situation, as is so frequently my daydream, if it were provided to me with the edge of enforcement, of being made genuinely to wait on, submit to, serve, and acknowledge as my superior a man who owned me? I don’t know, and I never will. I deeply love my partners. I have so much invested in my life. I have ties to what is, and what I will build with those I love. But I understand more now than I did before. I know what it means for a boy to be bratty; I know what it means for a boy to say he needs to be broken, when before I never understood why someone who wanted to be submissive wouldn’t do as I did and do as he was told, whether he wanted to or not. I’ve finally understood.

I realize too that my kink life is stymied by a glut of socialization. As my parents metaphorically poured food upon my head when I was at their home, my partners and household luxuries sate any tiny appetite for stimulation as soon as it starts to take form. These last few months I have been nigh-asexual most of the time. I’ve gone through periods of interest in being submissive again, and periods of interest in being dominant; but most often, unless aroused by direct action of a boy lapping at my feet, or asking me to bind or discipline him and enjoying his helplessness at my hand, my sex drive has been dormant. I don’t want to initiate things – why would I want to get up from my immense comfort? Why leave the incredible edification of my video games and my pleasant dinners out to reserve time in an evening for a ramp-up of kink I’m not in the mood for, knowing full well I may end up turned on by it anyway? The enemy, I think, of my boys’ sexual fulfillment at my hand is not fleeting submissive desires of my own. It’s a superbly comfortable couch.

And that on its own might be merit enough to condemn me, at least by my standards, as deficient in dominance. However, that is a weak indictment I think; and, having had many hours of open road and damnably brownish-green countryside, I’m prepared to do better.

The dominant I want to be and the life I want to have is, and always has been, the precise reciprocal of the life I want to have as a submissive. One or more slaves, their ownership fully realized as live-in 24/7 TPE possessions, whether they left the home for eight hours a day for work or not. Boys who conformed to my will, have the initiative to do as a desire, the discipline to attend promptly and carefully to their chores, and the genuine desire to spend their idle time in grateful contemplation of my superiority to them, naked, exposed, vulnerable, but most of all reverent and grateful, simply resting at my feet; that is, in truth, the culmination of my desires. And, having tasted that somewhat, and seen who I am and how I do spend my time, I know far more about why I do not have it – and will not without dramatic self-improvement and personal growth.

The man I served early this year, while never incompassionate, was consistently demeaning, disciplinary, and motivating; to some extent this may have been aided by leading questions on my part, asking how he wished me to serve, but his physical attentions throughout and the unrelenting pace with which he made me work were indispensible to the experience. At no point that night did I start slacking to my knowledge, or express boredom, and that may be a trait of mine – but at no point did he invite either. The scenes in which I interact with boys I frequently check in on their morale, ask them about rest, and – at least from the perspective of my own submissive side – allow my compassion to overflow in to leniency and accommodation. My own scenes have historically erred on the side of caution and gentleness; and while those traits have their place in BDSM, and I don’t think it’d ever be reasonable or healthy for a dominant to go without them, I have historically overdone them to an absurd degree. To a degree that the man I served never even vaguely approached, and happily so, while I served him. It may not have been an enjoyable night in the moment; and nor would lifestyle enslavement necessarily be. Even the majority of nights would likely be as or like that one was. Yet it was fulfilling and erotic and exciting in ways almost no other experience has been. Yet, to submissives who come to me, I never offer that edge, that thrill, that anxiety – and so I fail to provide that much deeper and more abiding reward. And providing those things would be work for me, considerable work. Both that of leaving my comfortable nest to provide hands-on reminders and motivation, not necessarily pleasant, of a sub’s place and the discipline to obey, and also work of curbing my over-indulgent nature. That latter might have earned me the gratitude of colleagues at work, but a boy coming over to be a slave in my own is NOT a colleague, and my home, once entered, should not be an elective workplace.

Of course, this has quite a few implications; as I have grown to love my partners deeper over the years we have each grown and changed as individuals. While I don’t know that my actual desires have changed any (instead, it seems, I have simply come to know them more clearly), it has seemed that some of my younger partners’ desires have; and Faberi’s desires, while not seeming to change, are more clearly distinct to me now. This understanding I have, now, of what I want from submissives, may or may not be alignable with their desires either for themselves or for any other partners we were to attract. What I want to find in a slave is not mutability but instead a deep-felt need of the kind I know myself – to be broken, owned, disciplined, used, and made to serve. To own slaves who have, through their own experiences and journeys, learned that do genuinely need to be kept as the lesser of a man, and can enter in to such an arrangement with a clear mind and without doubts about who and what they are.

But the day to seek such a servant, if such a day comes, is not now; I love my partners, and I love how full they keep my life. I live on a glut of what I value most – the love, time, and interactions of kind, intelligent, talented people. And while the occasional impoverishment of that good company may prove beneficial or even necessary to my own enlightment and understanding, I’m happy to reject Stoicism for Epicureanism in my life.

My partners just may suffer somewhat from my resulting inadequacies as a kinkster.

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