Journey Into Submission

a bdsm love journal

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I’m on my way to answering the questions about the pain/play aspect of my relationship with Michael, I just have to take a little detour before I get there.

As I was reading the questions left here, I was again reminded how easy it is to confuse different aspects of this multi-faceted lifestyle loosely lumped under the acronym of “bdsm”. The letters are a confusing jumble of letters meant to cover a wide variety of activities – bondage, discipline, dominance, submission, sadism, and masochism. I’m sure you could argue that there are other words that would fit those letters, but those are the ones I’ve seen most often so we’ll stick with that.

In my relationship with Michael, we are continually engaged in our Dominant/submissive dynamic. He is always the Dominant, I am always the submissive. Period. No questions asked. Ever. This does not change whether I am tickling him in bed or he is beating me senseless. The “D/s” part of “bdsm” is a thoroughly fundamental part of our life. Our power dynamic fluctuates… it sometimes seems the thinnest layer of respect and deference in heated conversation, and it sometimes overwhelms both of us when I am on my knees at his feet, but it never goes away. Just like I am always my daughters’ mother, he is always my owner and I always belong to him.

The part of our relationship where we engage in things that hurt and bruise and create endorphins is the “s/m” part of “bdsm” (this is often referred to as “S&M” in popular culture). He is a sadist, I am a masochist. This is rather independent of our relationship. He occasionally enjoys hurting people other than me and I enjoy being hurt by people other than him. The sensations are what is important in this particular definition, not the person with whom the play is conducted. In the grand scheme of the time Michael and I spend together, the “s/m” part is relatively minor. If we are fooling around on the couch or in bed he will almost always bite me or pinch my nipples or scratch my thighs, but most of the time we behave like respectable people and treat each other nicely.

In short, the D/s dynamic is quantifiably separable from the s/m activities we pursue. The Dom/sub aspect of us underlies all else and never goes away, no matter how invisible it may seem to outsiders or how aggressively I rage against it when I am angry. The sadism/masochism is a temporary expression of a particular facet of our identities, much like if we were to occasionally go rock climbing or do crossword puzzles.

I promise I’m working on explaining how Michael and I work pain and play into our relationship. It isn’t as complicated as I’m making it, but it surely isn’t easy either.


So, what unresolved questions linger in your mind about my life, or perhaps more specifically, my lifestyle? What have I mentioned but not explained sufficiently? I’m getting quite a kick out of the quasi-dialogue that has been going on lately in my comments and I realized I’m feeling a bit more spontaneous and less defensive than I usually do, for some reason, so I’m interested in what you’d like to know.

Please, keep your questions within reason for an anonymous sex/bdsm blog. I’m not going to tell you anything remotely personally identifiable about myself, Michael, or my location. I’m talking more about ideas, terms, situations, or experiences. It is hard for me to remember that most people reading this do not live in my world and my community, so I think I tend to assume a level of knowledge and familiarity with the culture that may not actually exist. There is definitely a specialized vocabulary and frame of reference in certain situations and I forget to expand on this most of the time.

I’m not sure if I will incorporate the questions and answers into the comments on this post, or start a new post to expose them to a wider audience. I guess it depends on how expansive my answers become and how much information ends up being shared…

Ask away. Please be polite, patient, and thoughtful.


Well, if imitation is the sincerest form of flattery, I should be tickled pink.

Someone lifted one of my posts, edited about half of it out, and claimed it as her own. I’m not going to drive readers to an unethical plagiarist by supplying a link here, but I will re-post what I originally wrote so you can recognize it if you come across it in your blog travels. For someone who makes such a big stink on her blog about being impeccable in her word, stealing someone else’s work really is exceptionally low.

May 22, 2008

This is a piece I wrote during one of my recent workshops. It is a seven-minute “fastwrite”, with no contemporaneous or subsequent editing. The goal of a fastwrite is to write quickly without any plan, to keep the hand moving and the words flowing, to write fast enough to stay one step ahead of the inner critic or editor. The prompt for this piece was to write about the place where and the time when you write; I cried when I read my words to the group.


I used to write hunched over the computer, a slave to the screen and the keyboard and the symmetrical beauty of it all. I used to write on the couch out in the open, hiding my words. I used to write for others unseen and the pleasures of the mind. That was before. Now I write inside myself, inside where it hurts and tangles and tears. I write inside my heart, creating my own story, my own dialogue, my own path of who I am. I am writing a map. I am drawing a background/foreground image of my reality. I write long-hand with one hand on my cat and one hand in motion. I write in the soft safe place I have forced for myself because the world is too big and open and bright and scary. I write what I see and I see what I write and they are both the same. The spot is cushy and soft and mine, piled with books when I am not there so no one else can occupy my world. I write when I hurt and when I am overflowing or overfilled or overwhelmed. When I am under a “something else” I write to get back on top of me and my madness. The words, just like the conversations with friends, do not always make anything easier but they do remind me that I am not alone. When I create a character who then creates herself and lives her life so I can watch, I am not alone. I am not alone in my lonely spot that I have created for my solace and protection. I am not alone in the warm and soft haven I have set aside for being alone and being me. I am not alone as long as I have my imagination and my heart and my voice and my ears to hear what those to whom I have given life are saying and doing. I sit in my safe place and hear the words, see them tumbling out and about and once they are written down if they are about me they lose their power and their potential for destruction and sadness. I look into the face of my fear and I write.


Update: The post has been removed. I’m not sure if it was the nasty comment I left on her post, or the emails I sent to the blogger and her Dom on Fetlife. Either way, the situation has been resolved.


I have an interesting little holiday request today…

If I know you in real life – you and I have talked face to face and you actually know what Michael looks like – would you mind leaving a comment or emailing me? I’m always curious about my readers and intensely so about the ones with whom I actually associate. Even if you think you might know who I am, would you let me know you’re reading?

This is completely for my own self-edification, and so I have a better idea how widespread my actual identity is within my local community. Keeping track of these things has never been an ardent pursuit of mine, but lately I’ve been wondering about it. I would really appreciate anyone who helps out with this.



Please, oh please, if you have a spare moment and a kind word, please go reassure Ellie that she is loved and that she will make it through this torturously difficult time.

The drama in my life is like children arguing in a sandbox compared to the depth and pain in hers and I feel guilty for even writing about my supposed issues when she is hurting so badly. No one deserves to lose a love to death. It is just that much worse when the one left behind is so beautifully talented and full of love and life.

I am sorry, Ellie, that you are going through this and I will pray to the God that I know exists (because He sent me my children) that your suffering is eased until you can bear it.

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