Submission from a Place of Weeping

Yesterday I stumbled on a sub who was crying over her role in her dynamic because she found it that difficult. Duty was the operative word in that teary tirade because if you call yourself a submissive, you have an obligation to live up to it or we’ll expose you for having a fraudulent kink list. </sarcasm>

If that’s what submission looks like, I’d rather jump off this ride. I already work for eight hours a day. I will not turn sex into work too. I won’t be weeping over submission unless my dominant loses interest in blowjobs.

(Continued below)

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Despite my complete and utter lack of interest in having my body on display, my first dominant wanted to exhibit it to all and sundry. He was so good at inspiring my willing participation that exhibitionism became my kink for the duration of our relationship.

If I was struggling so hard over our mismatched kinks that I was in tears, that would indicate that I was supplying the power that I was meant to be giving up. I would be walking all the way toward my dominant instead of meeting him halfway, and that’s not what I signed up for. I signed up for an exchange, not duty.

That dominant had all the wrong kinks. He wanted a whorish sub in front of the camera lens, and I’d avoided having my picture taken for years. One day I sent him some photographs of my own volition. For the life of me, I could not understand why I’d done it. He said, “Because I wanted you to.” And it really was that simple. He barely had to hint at such things because I was constantly alert, hanging onto every word in the hope that it would unveil another desire. I got that much of a kick out of making him happy, so he got a veritable library of Red porn, which I eventually made a hard limit in the next relationship.

Dominance doesn’t need to throw its weight around. My kink is a man who draws me out of myself and acts as a magnet for my cooperation. Love is what does that. Acceptance is what does that. Duty is definitely not what does that, and I refuse to let it feature in my love life.

There are dominants who bring out the worst sub in me. They can rattle off orders that aren’t even close to as intimidating as those of my first dom, yet they can’t get a ‘yes’ out of me. When a man is selfishly coercive, I just don’t cave. Doing so feels like a relationship of four: him, him, the object-mirror called SpanishRed, and him. Is it any wonder that photographs for dom 1 made me proud of my body, and photographs for dom 2 made me ashamed?

D/s is meant to feel like magic, not work. Isn’t that what love’s made of? Magic?

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