The Turning Point

When you live in a vanilla world as a sub without a clue, every wall has hooks. There is no express limit list. Consent is fluid and felt for in a dark room. When you live in a vanilla world as a dom without a clue, you must collect information until you have enough to take your role. When you live in a world like this, there is that moment when two vanillas become dominant and submissive. There is one thing about being fluid in a dark room that I wish I could bottle and repeat and contain and repeat, repeat, repeat: That moment. The turning point.

There was no moment with the True Dom. He stole it, I let him, and repeat, repeat, bottle, and repeat.

The Artist

The artist collected information through trial and error. There were a lot of errors. He tried restraints.

“That’s exactly what you want.”

He tried tying me up and blindfolding me.

“That’s even more of what you want.”

He tried using his strength. He tried turning me on my face, holding me down, he tried
he tried
he tried all those vanilla-grade fumblings that didn’t give him what he wanted.

“That’s exactly what you want.”

I’m the melt-into sex-type, the love-sex-too-much type. The artist wanted to dominate that. He didn’t care about anything else. He wanted to get into that hardest part. Then he wanted to manipulate it.

Then there was the turning point. He gave up on Vanilla-BDSM-Lite. He knew my body by then. Every tiny little corner. He could pre-empt everything, every flinch, every god-no-fuck. That morning he did the most vanilla thing he’d ever done. He strung me up on a chord of sensation and hung me there, only this time he left me physically unrestrained by anything at all and he didn’t fuck me.

“Don’t move.”
“Open your eyes. Open them.”
“Look at me.”
“No. You can’t have that.”
“Stop that.”
“Look. At. Me.”


That was the first time I ever looked up at a man and didn’t move and was forced to feel less. The discomfort made it near impossible to follow his words but I followed them for hours. Physically, True Dom had put me through hell but this was intolerable. True Dom had let me sink into anything I wanted to. The artist didn’t let me sink into anything for as much as a second. After all those hours, he fucked me for five minutes and got into the shower. I felt I’d been sucked into a hot tide and then spat out cold. Nothing was the same after that. I can’t define what he seduced out of me or how it worked, but that was the turning point. Our roles were carved out of that moment.

He was never so gentle with me again. He was like an addict who’d had his first hit of heroin. He only became more imaginative and violent, but the important change was that he was also free. He could do all those things happily, because now he had dominance, and, more importantly, dominance of what he wanted to dominate.

My First Dom

My first dom observed for a long time before he made his move. He was not the gentle, sensual type. He was the kind who would be heavy handed or not at all. What he wanted was extensive and extreme. He wanted to know what breed I was, and so he waited. And told me nothing.

Ultimately, he went for the same chokehold the artist did, only not quite as politely. Our turning point began with, “For you to tease me all damn day…”

And then it went something like this:

The next day I asked him, “Was that really you?”
“Of course, sweetheart.”
“You’re amazing.”

That morning was the final turning point. He didn’t seduce my submission only for himself, he turned me into a sub for good.


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