30 Days Of Submission: Day 6 – The Root Of My Submission

Disclaimer: This post mentions topics involving consensual sexual violence. Not suitable for individuals under eighteen years of age. Reader discretion is advised.

Due to the sensitive and controversial nature of the details within, this post won’t be available for pingbacks., I am, however, willing to answer interviews on my unusual introduction to this lifestyle.

What do you feel are the roots of your submission? Do you think it has something to do with childhood? Is it a relationship management tool as in the practice of domestic discipline? Is it a sexual thrill or something else?

It all started around the first year of secondary school, the first time that I laid eyes on Carl. Carl was barely a few inches taller than me, with tanned skin, dark brown eyes, mousey brown hair and always a white, half-done-up shirt. Carl was charming, and after working with him in one drama class, I was smitten.

For many months, Carl was the object of my fantasies. There was something about him, something different, something that I couldn’t quite place my hands upon. The one thing I could do with my hands, however, was to imagine alone exactly what Carl would do with his, and I did – often.

For the longest time, the fantasy of sex with Carl was never just with Carl, alone. It was Carl and his friends, Carl with his friends in the woods opposite my school. Carl would be different to usual, he would treat me differently, he would tie me up and Carl would make me do things that I didn’t necessarily want to do. I wrote my favourite fantasy out and I stashed it away in the smallest box in a set of stacking boxes upon my shelf, a set that I refused to have stacked out on display for reasons unknown to my mother. In it, I noted in it that I gave Carl a blowjob for being a “good boy”. I didn’t know their significance at the time, but “good boy” and “good girl” were phrases that often came up often in my fantasies.

In sex education, I remember never being particularly enthused about the mechanics of sex. I was unphased at having to draw an A4-sized penis in my science book and I was completely nonplussed as I coloured in the deeper pink parts of the uterus. I drew a sperm cell with ease and I copied down all of the labels, and after that we watched a video about sex and pregnancy. While all of my class mates were left giggling, I left the classroom thoroughly bored. When would the good sex start?

Sex like I want with Carl.

Family Fitness

I still remember the day I worked out with my family. It was a routine every day after school. “Body conditioning”, that’s what we did, a series of exercises designed to maintain suppleness and fitness to help manage chronic pain. I remember working out to Ronan Keating’s Life Is A Rollercoaster on at least a dozen occasions.

What nobody tells you about fitness with chronic pain, is that sometimes, you have to do things a little differently. For me, press-ups were one such occurrence, and I would have to perform the motion against a wall or door instead of the floor, thus reducing the weight on my pain site and preventing me from crashing myself on the floor in a painful, crumpled heap.

I can’t remember why my parents felt that we should know in that particular moment, but they decided that now was the time to tell us. As I turned away from the wall and my mother finished a repition of bridges, the hidden truth finally came out.

“Your mother’s a pain junkie” my father said softly.

A pain junkie? What the hell is a ‘pain junkie’, and how the hell could anyone be addicted to pain? I was confused and didn’t understand it. My brother, meanwhile, was horrified and ran up to his room.

After that conversation, all of the pieces gradually began to fall into place. A pain junkie! I understood it now, but I lived with it and hated it, so why would on earth would anyone want pain?

For a long time, I flopped between thinking that this all sounded heavenly and thinking that there was something definitely wrong with my mother. The more I tried to fight it, though, the more it turned me on. I couldn’t deny anymore the fact that I loved the idea of being tied up and punished. I’d try not to think about it, but each time the thought would consume me.

Hanging Up Her Boots

Mum and Dad didn’t play together, I learned, and Mum had a Dominant called P. Suddenly, it all made sense why P was different around me. He was a family friend, and then he wasn’t. I liked P, but I also didn’t like him. He was nice, but also very different.

Mum and P split on unsavoury terms and after that, my mother left the scene. To help sate my curiosity, she handed me down a collection of Nexus books and was on hand to answer any questions that I had. We never discussed the personal details, only basic facts and information. For the longest time, my own biological mother was my BDSM mentor.

I still remember the day my mother and father took me to my first BDSM event. We stayed in the man bar area, well away from the dungeon areas. Mum took me to have a peek inside and so that I could see what goes on. I was shocked, but somehow equally turned on.

Very early on, Mum and I established lots of rules about our connection in the BDSM scene, including the things we would and would not do. She was somebody that I could talk to and learn from, but at the same time, we would not interrupt one another’s relationships, we would not go in the dungeon if the other one was in there and we most certainly would not do anything even remotely sexual together. Although Mum had “hung up her boots”, she still continued to support me as I broke mine in.

On a handful of occasions, Mum and I found ourselves talking to the same Dominant men. Credit where it’s due, most of them took it with complete grace and wanted to meet us for a coffee and chat anyway, but on two occasions, we had Dominants who tried to push our rules that much further. The first was R, who gave my Mum a dog collar and me a blown glass necklace as a “collar of consideration”. Mum and I laughed off the situation, but both of us expressed no desire to play with R later on. R was a nice guy and told me to keep the necklace as a gift and we stayed friends until things fizzled out naturally.

After that was N. I previously mentioned N, who sent me several items of poorly fitting latexwear, but what I missed out in this post (although I really wanted to detail in) was that it was actually my mother who returned these items, not me. I was so perturbed by the whole experience that I tasked her with their safe return, I emailed N and cut contact. All fine, until N agreed to slow things down considerably.

Hesitantly, I agreed to try again with N. He seemed genuine, he seemed genuinely sorry for what had happened and he seemed to really care. N asked me to send him photos of me completing various tasks in latex gloves, and not seeing anything major about the task, I dutifully obliged.

But that was also about when we unravelled his truth.

While I was sending N seemingly innocent, latex-gloved pictures, he was having far more in-depth discussions and arranging to play with my Mum. Having realised that he was pitting us both against one another, we set him up and closed down both arrangements. The rules are there out of our love and respect for one another, and no matter what happens, we’ve always had that one agreement – regardless of how fit our partner is and no matter how wild the offer may be, when it comes to a choice between kink and our loved ones, family will ALWAYS come first.

Role Reversal

Once I made a run of it with Mr Wolfie, he became my long-term partner. I opened up to him about my desires for more “traditional” marriage roles and my tastes and interests in BDSM. I’d seen my Nan and mother have traditional marriages, and I wanted more of the same, with added bits on top. I had no long-term experience and no idea what I did and didn’t like. Aside the handful of spankings that I had to go by, we would be very much learning in our own time.

For us, the most important thing now is to put our marriage first. Mr Wolfie and I are a husband and wife duo first and I am his submissive second. I am his equal and his partner in crime. and even if he’s wanted to haul me and my smart mouth across his knee on more than one occasion, he doesn’t. To him, the fact that I can express myself freely is far, far more important.

After losing Dad, I was Mum’s support and her confidanté. Mum opened up to me about some of the strangest feelings she’d had after losing her partner, including feelings about intimacy and sex. Instead of being creeped out and horrified, I listened to her as she’d always listened to me. No matter how hard I tried to put her feelings first though, my empathic nature was too strong and I felt her pain with her. I imagined what it would be like to be in her shoes – I could only imagine life without Mr Wolfie.

Mum is now dating again, and just as we humans haven’t yet found a way to change the colour of our eyes, Mum hasn’t been able to shake off exactly who she is. Most of our one-on-one interactions now involve some discussion on how the BDSM scene has changed over the years, the Dominant men that she’s been chatting to, how we would both love to see what Ant Middleton is really made of, and how the best Dominants know the key components of a successful mind fuck. We’re inseparable and now that the dust has settled, my mother is like my best friend.

Because of my family, BDSM is now a passion of mine. Far from just being something that I’m into and care about, it’s almost something that I seemingly have some kind of genetic predisposition towards. I am truly honoured and very lucky to have a wonderful family who supported me on my first steps and by continuing to support and educate others who are interested in this lifestyle, I like to see my efforts as sort of their sort of legacy. Owing to our special connection and my random tidbits of other general knowledge, my mother now calls me her “wonderful, weird” daughter and to be honest, I wouldn’t have it any other way. My whole family is weird and wonderful, but I wouldn’t swap them for the world.



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