Submission: The Missing Wheel

I did not become a sub. I always was one. I spent decades playing with enough shades of kink to build a rainbow. I had fun, but there had always been something missing. My sexuality was a jigsaw puzzle, and the borders of all the pieces spoiled the image. One tilt of a table and it all fell apart. There was no cohesiveness. As long as sex was skewed in some way, I was satisfied.


I thought I’d had a lifetime of the best sex a woman could wish for.  I have never been more wrong or more convinced of what I was wrong about.

Yes, there were tops, yes, there were ropes, bruises and scars. There were all kinds of separate things that find their way into D/s every day. The trouble was that I had only found out what being a bottom was like. I knew nothing about submission.

The inside of a chronograph is made of a series of wheels representing the kind of time they keep, each turning to make the next wheel turn. Month wheels make week wheels turn, which make day wheels turn, which make hour and then second wheels turn. Take one wheel out, and the watch stops ticking. Put it back in, and a fine mechanical watch will keep the seconds with 99.99% precision. If you listen to your watch, your life functions with as much acuity as a chronograph.

One of the reasons I’m in love with watchmaking is that it can take an entire year to make one chronograph–horology is an art. E was my first dom, the watchmaker who put in the missing wheel that made my life tick with 99.99% precision. Submission was the final piece that made my sexuality move and resonate for the first time after a lifetime of stasis. E was the finest of artists.


Sex was a tsunami that constantly ripped my home apart. Every morning I’d wake up to find clothes strewn all over the floor. Lunch time, more clothes. Evening, more. I was always having to clean up after myself. My life was a haze. My paintings were always having to be put back into their rightful position. My sofa was always skew.  I genuinely thought I’d become a sex addict. When E was away for a week, I returned to my usual state, so I found that I could rest easy. I had not become a nymphomaniac—at least, not permanently. He was the root of it, not some unhealthy compulsion. In his absence, I became a fully functioning member of society who didn’t need sex three times a day every day. Like someone who had been without food for a week, I’d simply found out I was a sub and was eating up the lifetime of great sex I’d been without all in one mouthful.

My sexuality had begun to tick.

E didn’t just bring sex into my life. He brought confidence. The more time we spent together, the taller I walked. I felt as though I had spent a lifetime in the wrong skin and was at last wearing the one I belonged in. Feeling so entirely myself made me proud. My personality, my body, were cohesive.

Self-love had begun to tick.

Being myself meant I could be loved as myself for the first time in my life. Here was a man who had seen every tiny corner of who I was and adored all of them. Each time I showed him a new part of myself, I was terrified he would hate me. I was stunned over and over again that seeing those things only made him love me more. It was an epiphany because I thought I was a freak of nature. It’s only when you are entirely yourself that intimacy is possible. As a sub, I was entirely myself for the first time. Being accepted as such gave me the courage to show him other parts of myself that nobody else had ever seen. He loved those, too.

Intimacy had begun to tick.

I did not become a sub. I always was one. After I found out, the puzzle of myself turned into a painting. There were no more borders of pieces to spoil the image. If the table tilts, the picture remains whole. There is solidity to my sexuality—submission is its cohesiveness. Satisfaction has left my life and been replaced with resonance.


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