Under The Whip

I feel like I’m finally in a place where I can talk about a recent experience that affected me deeply. It is something that ultimately led to me stepping away from, and blocking, someone I had been mentoring and growing close to as a friend. I won’t be sharing any identifying details, but this situation has stayed with me in a very real way.

Content Warning: - This writing contains references to abuse and domestic violence. Reader discretion is advised, especially for those who may find these topics distressing.

I met this person through social media and we connected quickly. After some time, I invited them to join our server, so we could talk more easily. I was genuinely excited, we had a lot in common, and I was happy to welcome a new friendship into my life. Over time, they began seeking guidance not only from me but from others in our space, both Dominants and submissives, around power exchange and relationship dynamics. Eventually, I took on more of a mentorship role with them.

As time went on, they would come to us frequently in distress, sharing ongoing struggles within their relationship. They described patterns of verbal harm, blame, and emotional pain that raised serious concerns. Based on what was shared, and even messages I was shown, it appeared to be an unhealthy and possibly abusive dynamic. Many of us gently encouraged seeking professional support, but they expressed that they did not believe in therapy. Looking back, that was something I wish I had paid closer attention to.

This wasn’t something I navigated alone, others in our community, including my Masters and several experienced Dominants, also offered support and perspective. We all cared deeply and wanted to help.

Things escalated over time. They became physically ill, and there were concerns about neglect in their care. One night, they came to us in visible distress, saying they had been physically hurt by their partner. To the point their face was covered in bruises. We encouraged them to seek medical attention, which they did, though they chose not to disclose the full situation to healthcare professionals despite encouragement to prioritize their safety.

A short time later, there was another incident. They reached out again, frightened and asking for help. Begging to speak to me alone after informing eight other people, including my Masters that their partner had badly beaten them up again. I was eventually able to speak with them privately, and during that conversation, it became clear they were in a very unsafe moment. Their partner entered the room while we were speaking. They begged their parterner to leave them alone, and not to hurt them again. They refused to leave so I calmly asked for space to be given so they could feel safe.

That request was not received well.

At that point, I made it clear that if space wasn’t respected, the only way to ensure safety might be to involve emergency services. The situation escalated emotionally very quickly. They began telling my friend how bad of a person I was, because I desired those bad men with guns to show up to hurt them. Then they demanded my friend hang up the phone, because they were done with me. That was they hung up while saying they will reach out to me in a moment. They did not reach out right aaway so I worried about them.

I was deeply afraid for their wellbeing.

With the limited information I had, Their name, city/state, and one phone number. I made the difficult decision to request a welfare check. I did this after guidance fro my own Masters. So I did this out of genuine concern, hoping simply to ensure they were safe. When authorities arrived, they stated they were fine. That my friend had no idea what I was talking about.

Afterward, they were understandably upset with me. They felt that I had crossed a line, and they used terms that I don’t feel accurately reflect what happened. Saying I doxxed and swatted them? I used only the information they had given me, and a welfare check is not swatting. Even so, I can understand why it may have felt overwhelming or invasive from their perspective.

For me, this was never about control, panic, or projection. It was about care, concern, and doing what I believed was the safest option in a moment that felt genuinely dangerous.

What ultimately led me to step away completely was receiving a message that felt threatening in nature, one that did not feel like it came from the person I had been speaking to, but rather reflected outside influence from their spouse. At that point, it became clear that continuing any form of contact was no longer healthy or safe for me.

I want to be clear about one thing, I will never regret trying to ensure someone’s safety. Even if it means being misunderstood, even if it means being seen as the “bad guy” in someone else’s story, I can live with that. What I could not live with is doing nothing in a moment where someone may have been in real danger.

At the same time, I also understand that leaving an abusive situation is incredibly complex. It is not simple, and it is not something anyone can force another person to do. I hold space for that truth, and I genuinely hope they find safety, healing, and support in time. Before it is too late.

Sometimes caring about someone means making a choice they may never agree with. And sometimes, it also means knowing when to step away with compassion, for them, and for yourself.

They are of course still active in this community. I hope they can find a better support system for themselves before they becoem more harmed, or their partner ends up harming someone else.

There’s a kind of silence that doesn’t come from peace, it comes from the absence of something sacred.

Lately, that’s what I’ve been living in. A quiet, aching space between what my heart longs for and what life currently allows.

Our home has become a place of care and compassion, full of people who need tending. Family members with illnesses, dementia, bipolar disorder, souls who need patience, stability, and love. And I give that, wholeheartedly. It is what’s right. It is what’s needed. But somewhere in the process of caring for others, I’ve had to tuck away pieces of myself.

The part that kneels.The part that bows her head and whispers, yes, my Master. The part that lives and breathes devotion through ritual. Those small, quiet moments that used to anchor me, kneeling, offering, surrendering, are no longer part of my daily rhythm. And without them, I feel... adrift.

There’s a grief that comes with that loss, even though it feels strange to call it grief. But that’s what it is. A mourning for something still alive, just out of reach. The rituals were never just “acts” or “roles.” They were breaths. Heartbeats. Sacred pauses in the noise of the world where I could just be, Theirs.

Now, I move through my days surrounded by family, keeping the peace, keeping the masks on. I smile, I comfort, I tend to those who need it most. But beneath it all, there’s this dull ache, a hunger that hums low and constant.

It isn’t about sex, or even about control. It is about expression. It is about the freedom to live in my truth. To kneel without needing to explain why. To feel Their presence in the air and know that my submission has a place to breathe. And when that breath is held too long, the edges of me start to blur. I feel myself spiraling a little, grieving what I can’t express, missing what made me feel whole.

I know this isn’t forever. I know love and devotion don’t vanish just because the rituals have paused. But still, I can’t help but feel the pull of it, the yearning to return to that space where I can exhale, surrender, and feel the world fall quiet again.

Until then, I hold the ache like a prayer. I whisper devotion in the spaces between tasks, and hope that, somehow, They still feel it, that my heart still kneels, even when my body cannot.