She is, without doubt, one of the most naturally dominant women I have ever met. She is smart, beautiful, stylish, highly accomplished, confident to the extreme, and very comfortable giving orders. She loves to be pampered with gifts, foot massages, hates housework, is a natural tease, has issued many requests for changes in my dress, behavior…you get the picture. Even before I shared any overtly submissive feelings with her, I began to massage her, cook for her, clean house, get her drinks, flowers, etc. At first I was in conflict with this aspect of my own nature, my ego is strong, and wanted simply the sexual aspect, but more and more I try to serve her in what ever way I can.
Anna would drag me from the car, though the parking lot, and into her building by my hair or my necktie. Once inside her condo, I was told to sit, ordered to fix her a drink, or (in her bitchiest moods) literally thrown over an overstuffed easy chair in her living room. Though I lived there also, it was always “her” residence. After she changed clothes, Anna would emerge from her bedroom with her arsenal – a 36″ 3/8″ cane she called her “schoolboy”, and the heavy wooden paddle she referred to as her “board of education”. The cane was simply a woodworker dowel from the local hardware store, the paddle I purchased for her at Leather Man in NY City. Anna didn’t believe in mincing words or warmups, if I was already bent over the chair she simply began, if I weren’t she would simply tell me to “get over here”.
The pain of her initial blows, delivered full force, was indescribable. I always resented the first few, usually delivered with the cane (she said she liked to switch between the cane and paddle because although the paddle was more painful, she liked the welts the cane left on me), and I nearly always asked myself why I allowed her to do this to me. But after stroke five or six, I no longer felt the pain, I only heard the swoosh as the schoolboy or the board sailed through the air, and felt an intense emotional rush, almost an out-of-body type experience. My hands would cup my face, and my resentment turned to a strange mix of fear and excitement. My surreal protests turned to the squealing, feminine whimpers Anna loved to hear. Instead of resisting the blows, I would lean into them, eager to meet Anna’s challenge to be a real sub. I would tremble uncontrollably, and my eyes would swell up with tears, while Anna would giggle and comment on what a wonderful shade of red my buttocks were.
When my absolute limit (usually about 25-30 strokes) was reached, I would burst into tears, and collapse on my knees before her, frantically embracing her around the waist, thanking and kissing her, and, if she were wearing her dildo, unconsciously fellating her. She had two wearable dildos, the very sensual latex dildo panties, I purchased for her at Dressing for Pleasure in Montclair, NJ, and the more fearsome-looking strapon, that came from The Noose in NY City. From that moment, I was hers, to please her traditionally, orally, or with DP/SO time. Though this regimen took time, discussion, and some fumbling to develop, once established, our relationship benefitted enormously. Anna loved the physical sensation and transformational mystique of the dildos, and the empowerment that they and her arsenal gave her.
For me, the pain and humiliation were beneficial on several levels. Obviously, they reminded me of just who was in charge of the relationship. But more subtly, having my attention periodically refocused by this recurring event set a healthy stage for the regular submissive behavior that Anna expected. I drew comfort and strength from the regular beatings. The torrent of emotion released by being pushed to my limit of pain tolerance was profoundly liberating, and worked for me as a high bar of expectation that put no level of submissive behavior beyond the pale. I no longer felt embarrassed by reluctant to act out my submissive desires, or struggled to balance them with the male persona I felt obligated to portray in my daily life. Instead, I felt a reassurance that my submissive nature was encouraged as a normal part of our relationship. Once this high bar had been established, I felt the freedom to act in the zone that she had created.
I enjoyed embracing her, arms around her neck, with my backside facing the closet mirror so Anna could admire the welts I was so proud of. I would kiss her softly and thank her for the experience. My acceptance of DP/SO time was not begrudging (as, admittedly, it became by midweek), but enthusiastic. There were no arguments about my need to remain silent and follow her with a shopping cart in the supermarket, do the household chores nude while she chatted on the telephone with her mother (who thought my choretime uniform was cute), keep the closets organized, turn my paycheck over to her, abide by her choice of restaurants, be on time for events (such as the figure skating performances she enjoyed), respect deadlines (trash out by 7PM, etc), do favors for her friends (e.g., drive Sarah to the airport), run errands, or hold her purse should she choose to chat at length with a female neighbor. Unexpected chocolates, flowers, and notes arrived often.
Anna never put her thoughts on paper, but if she had, I think she would have said that some men simply need regular beatings to remain focused on relationship goals, and be communicative.