Abandon hope all ye who enter here, for my mind is darkly labyrinthic

The hooded, single-bulb light swung back and forth slowly. The creak it made, as it hung from the chain, was the only sound in the dim room, other than a soft whimper or a periodic sniffing sound coming from the shadows. The light only lit the center of the room, a dirt-floored building that had seen much better days. Like a slow-moving pendulum, the light was pushed by the unseen fingers of the slight breeze, temporarily dispelling some shadows as it swayed.

The door in the center of the long wall banged open, bouncing back as it was thrust open with too much force.

Shuffling sounds come from the dark corners: a louder whimper, a voice whispering “hush.”

He steps into the circle of light. Tall and lean with shoulder-length hair tied back in a simple ponytail, he was an imposing figure, and all knew he was as strong – emotionally and physically – as he looked.

A short, full-bosomed woman with a pixie cut showing off the sharp angles of her face, stepped into the building behind him.

“43,” he said, his deep voice was confident and clear.

She nodded. Sliding past him into the room, she moved with fluid grace to the wall and flipped a switch. Harsh fluorescent lights flickered to life above, casting the room in a strong, sterile light. Illuminated along the walls are cages, some tall and narrow, some shorter and longer. In many of the cages are figures. Women: women standing, women lying down, women sitting. All cowering, all afraid.

They blink, almost in unison as the bright, harsh light floods the room with brightness. Pixie-cut reaches out to pull the hose from the wall-mount, giving it a good tug to pull free lots of hose. Turning the tap on, she pulls the hose over to a cage with a cowering figure in it. The number 43 is written in chalk on a black square of wood hanging from the front  of the cage.

Pixie-cut squeezes the hose nozzle, spraying forth a stream of cold water. Number 43 shrieks and scampers back against the far wall of her cage in a vain attempt to escape the fiercely cold water. Pixie-cut is unrelenting, hosing the woman from top to bottom, then moving to the side to aim the jet of water toward number 43’s back.

Blank stares from the other cages, each occupant secretly glad her number wasn’t called. Each also well aware of what could, or would, happen next. Almost as if sensing this thought, Pixie-cut turns off the water, drops the hose, and pulls from her back pocket a leash. Unlocking the front of the cage, she snaps her fingers, and 43 reluctantly, and shivering from head to toe, moves slowly forward. Pixie-cut snaps the leash onto 43’s collar and pulls her out of the cage.

He’s watching all of this, eyes only on 43. 43 struggles to stand once free of her cage, reaching out to catch herself as her unsteady legs wobble from unaccustomed motion. He narrows his eyes at this show of weakness and steps forward to take the leash from Pixie-cut.

Pixie-cut turns off the overhead light, and closes the door behind her as she follows him out of the building, with 43 following submissively behind.

The swinging of the single light slows as the door is closed. The drafty room is once again cast in shadows, obscuring the dozen or so faces of the women in cages as they huddle for meager warmth. 

As some of you know, hubby and I are in the process of discovering a new dynamic between us. I also know there are a lot of other people in the same situation. I stumbled across this podcast that is just too good not to share:

https://player.fm/series/lovingbdsm/when-the-submissive-leads-the-transition-from-vanilla-to-ds-lb096-loving-bdsm

It discusses how to transition from vanilla to Dom, with the sub being the motivator.

Happy listening!

The autonomous car purred to a stop outside an austere-looking building. All grey, it was foreboding and uninviting, just as most ministry buildings were.

Jonathan looks up from his datapad, sees that the car has stopped and sighs. “I hope this doesn’t take long,” he mumbles as he tucks his workpad into the seat pocket. He gathers the last of his things and says “open”, causing the car to swing wide the door so that he may exit.

A tall, powerfully built man in the prime of his life, Jonathan runs a successful business, and he reminds himself that he has little time for fetching a new odalisque. He lost the last one, who happened to have been his favorite, to his friend Gregory in a game of chance, and now he needs a new girl.

He wasn’t expecting to be wowed, but he did hear that there was a new group of odalisques to be viewed, and his position allowed him access to the new group before the general public.

Owning odalisques, a historical term referring to women in a harem, was made popular after the last war, when everything, or nearly everything, became automated, thereby eliminating the working class. With no people left to serve as gardeners, cooks, and servants, those left in the working class sold themselves into service.

Over the years their duties became more refined, and both men and women odalisques evolved into personal playthings of those who could afford them.

Jonathan was one such person, and he had certain proclivities that caused him to wear out his odalisques faster than normal. In fact, it was well-known among his friends that if you let Jonathan use your odalisque, you might not get them back in quite the same condition.

Taking the concrete steps at the front of the building two at a time, Jonathan paused a second for the main door to swing open, and for the scan to register his ID.

The security door slid open, and Jonathan stepped into an austere front lobby, with a stern looking woman sitting behind a desk at the far end of the room.

She looked up as he approached, gazing at him from over the top of her old-fashioned glasses. “Jonathan Mayer”, he said, and she nodded and indicated he should pass down the hall behind her desk.

Jonathan’s mind was on an upcoming meeting when he stepped into the viewing chamber. It was an open space, and in a single line down the middle of the room, were the new odalisques. Arranged in order of skin tone and hair color, Jonathan gave the naked women a cursory glance before seeing the handler and walking over to him.

“Ahh Mr. Mayer, welcome, welcome. Are you ready to select a new odalisque? We have a lovely selection for you today. All fresh, newly trained, and ready for service. Should we start at this end?” He gestured to the dark-skinned beauty kneeling nearby, at the end of the line. Hair long and glossy black, her limbs were slim, breasts full, and long thighs gave her an elegant look as she knelt on the floor with legs folded under her.

Jonathan looked at each naked girl as he slowly moved down the line, uninspired. Beautiful, yes they were all beautiful. Breasts of all sizes, all shaved, and all immaculate. And all boring.

Halfway down the line of girls, Jonathan paused when he heard a cry come from a distance. He looked up, searching the handler’s face for a sign of where the cry came from.

“All these girls are trained to please you, however that may be.” The handler didn’t seem to notice the cry as Jonathan did. “They’re good girls, adaptable and easily trained to do any number of tasks.”

Looking down at his wrist to see the time stamp, Jonathan sighs. This is taking too long, he thinks to himself.

Another distant cry, this more of a scream, stopped him. This time he turned to the handler, and asks, “What is that? Who is making that noise?”

The handler dismissed the question with a wave of his hand. “Oh, we’ve had an odalisque come in for retraining. It’s nothing. Look at this fine specimen here.” He lifted the chin of a chestnut-haired beauty. “She’s perfection, don’t you think?”

Jonathan shrugged and moved to the next girl.

Another cry came from the other room and Jonathan turned to the handler. “Tell me more. About that one.” He pointed in the direction of the cries.

“Oh, surely you can’t be interested in such used material. Her owner died, but had been sick for some time and she was allowed certain freedoms and liberties, resulting in intolerable behaviors. Hence the need for reconditioning.” The handler smoothed down the front of his jacket, pondering how much more to say.

“I want to see it. I want to see the one you’re reconditioning.” Jonathan turned his piercing gaze to the handler.

Flustered now, the handler shrugged. “If you insist, but she’s hardly spectacular. Follow me.”

The girls were left to sit exposed and naked, kneeling in perfect submission, as Jonathan trailed the handler back down the length of the room. Opening a door at the end, they stepped through into a smaller room. Against the side wall, a woman was secured to the training board, a standard-issue multi-use vertical platform that can be used for punishment, pleasure, or just hanging plants. Her head hung down, face obscured by long, tangled hair. Dirty blond, or just dirty, Jonathan wasn’t sure. She was also plumper than most odalisques. Almost sensing this very thought, the handler interrupted Jonathan’s inspection. “She’s on a diet. She was allowed to eat whatever she wanted and has lost her sleek lines.”

Jonathan nodded and stepped closer. He could see the red welts on her legs and arms, arms which were extended above her head and secured to the training board. Her breasts were not overly large, but he didn’t mind the size.

“Make her look up. I want to see her face.” More intrigued by this imperfect specimen, Jonathan wanted to look at her face. But not to analyze her beauty, but to look into her eyes.  

“Number 2780-24, look up,” demanded the handler. She didn’t move.

The handler nodded to the trainer who stood nearby. Jonathan hadn’t even noticed the trainer, so intent was he on the figure on the white board. The trainer lashed out with the sensory-whip, and Jonathan could see from the glowing red length that it was set to more than just stun.

It slapped against her naked skin and she thrashed, as much as she could, and she cried out “Fucking hell!” then sobbed a few times.

The handler gasped, looking quickly at Jonathan to see his reaction to the foul language.

Jonathan was staring intently at her now. He felt the blood start to rush through his veins. He reached out and forcibly lifted her chin. Tears had made clean tracks down a dusty face, but the look in her eyes was defiant. Proud. Strong.

His cock twitched to life in his pants. This one, he thinks to himself. This is the one I want.

Turning on his heel, Jonathan started to leave the room, the handler close behind. “I want that one. Have her delivered to my home just as she is. Do NOT clean her up. Do not clothe her. I want her there by 2 p.m.” I will train her myself, he says to himself, and not just a little turned on by the notion.

Perplexed, the handler only nodded.

Long, muscular legs carrying him out of the building, Jonathan forgot all about his afternoon meeting as he directed the car to take him directly home.

There is an innocence to the whimpers and slow-twisting of limbs as she tries to extricate herself from the binds, ropes, and ties that hold her securely against the large boulder. It is cold and rough against her back, the thin cotton shift scant protection from its impersonal support. She doesn't notice, not when the ropes are chafing her wrists and the not-so clean cloth shoved into her mouth prevented her from crying out.

Trails of cheap mascara run down her face, marring her porcelain skin with ugly gashes of watery black. And her hair, once properly coiffed, is a tangle, a manifestation of her confusion, fear, and anxiety.

She twists again, fruitfully, trying to loosen the bonds holding her arms out to the sides of the boulder, and to free her legs which are bound tightly together at the ankle. The ground is rough but hard, and provids no purchase for heels that try to dig down and provide leverage.

Rustling to the side. She whips her head around, searching the murky darkness for evidence of its origin. Nothing.

Nothing.

Panicking more, now, a sense of urgency as primal adrenaline courses through her veins in response to some unknown threat. Whimpers become cries. Twists become thrashes.

From the darkness steps a looming form, wearing nothing but an engorged erection and a wicked smile. “You’re mine,” it growls, voice raspy from disuse.

Screaming now, but still immobile, she can’t tear her eyes from the huge, trident-tipped phallus of the demon.

It chuckles at her futile cries and gyrations.

In one swift move it leans down and grabs the rope at her ankles, pulling her towards itself. She kicks out in a vain attempt to get free but it only serves to amuse the demon, and it chuckles again.

A long, sharp fingernail saws the rope at her ankles apart, letting the musty twine fall to the ground. With one ankle in each hand he pulls her legs apart and leans down to smell her mustiness. A wet, serpentine tongue flicks out sampling her, and his phallus lurches in eager response.

She is screaming now and bucking her hips, knowing she is about to be fucked by the beast that holds her captive. All her energy is spent on getting free, but a part of her knows that freedom is elusive and not to be hers. Not this day.

Still holding her legs firmly, now one on either side of his hips, he moves forward and probes her with his rock-hard tri-tipped penis. The demon moans; a very different sound than the ones she is making.

Without warning, he plunges roughly into her, slamming his hips forward, pushing deep into her, causing her to take all of him. A look of bliss distorts his features, but she doesn't see; she is barely conscious now as his demonhood plunges savagely, beastily, into her again and again.

Faster, harder, his thrusts are leading to his release, and the look on its face is of grisly, distorted pleasure.

He drops a leg and slaps her face with his open hand, jarring her back to reality. Torn asunder she alternates between cries and screams as he thrust his cock, aching for release, a final time deeply, oh-so-deeply into her.

He shudders. And slows.

Pulls out of her and drops her other leg.

Silence.

She cracks an eye open. “Babe, you’re awesome,” she mumbles into the tangled sheets.

“Pretty good yourself, sweets,” he says as he drops down beside her onto the bed, freeing her hands and pulling her close against his chest.

She snuggles up against his familiar warmth, sighing as the tingles and soreness fade into a memory of being ruthlessly, but oh-so-deliciously taken by her demon.

She waits.

The silent darkness is alive with the thrums,
pulses,
and beats of her heart.
Her mind races,
but tendrils of thought speed out of reach.

She sits,
Right where he told her.
Hands on lap,
Knees on floor,
Head bowed.

She listens
Straining ears to catch the tiniest sound:
But nothing.
Nothing envelops her in its cold embrace.

She quivers
Ever so slightly,
Hoping that slight movement didn’t defy.

Longing.
Hunger.
Passion.
Craving.
Pressure to touch/be touched/feel/be felt
Builds.

A hand,
Warm on her cold shoulder.
Firm, possessive, demanding and gripping.

Her lips open slightly
As the trembling moan tumbles forth.

He comes.

She is ready.

Expectations are evil.

Part of the impetus, as I wrote hubby in a letter, was for me to shed the burden of expectation. To shed the burden, at least for a while, of control. Like many other subs (much to my delight), I have realized my need to unburden and to do this, I submit fully and wholly to hubby-turning-Dom.

He's taking to it well, and if not with enthusiasm, then at least with regularity and thoroughness. But last night, last night was wayyyyy off the mark and we've yet to talk about it.

I confess that part of the problem was that I had expectations. Expectations that I'd unburden, expectations that I'd release, expectations that he'd fulfill some of what I was lacking and craving.

And it just didn't happen. Full stop.

Rather than the dreamy delirium of subspace, I felt like it couldn't be over soon enough, and I hurried things along (as much as possible) to end it.

Yes, I'm going to have to confess all this when he gets home, but I have yet to reconcile in my own mind, how to deal with expectations. And you, lucky reader, get to follow along if you continue reading.

Expectations come from a place of control. They are an endgame, a goal. "I expect that x or y will happen," and you work toward that goal. That is still me driving the interaction.

But to drop those expectations is exceptionally hard. It requires trust in the other person, that they somehow intrinsically know what you need, it requires a certain mindset on your own part to force your mind away from choreographing the encounter, and it requires endurance to keep your mind from wandering to unpleasant Expectations Land.

It also requires communication; herein is where I believe I failed. I didn't fully communicate what I needed. I thought I did. But he interpreted it somewhat differently in a manner that was just way off the mark. 

Ah ha! But by communicating what I need, is that truly sub behavior and mindset or just another way to control the situation? Ieee. This is complicated. 

I don't care how empathetic one is, they can't truly and accurately read the situation perfectly all the time. I communicated (perhaps un-sub like behavior) and it backfired. 

I'd truly love some insight. Is communicating what I think I need - just the broad strokes (ha ha pun not intended but appreciated) - an effort to control the situation or is it a necessary component? Do I leave it up to him (who has typically been at a near-total loss to read me accurately), or do we have a conversation in advance about what I hope, and he hopes, to achieve? How does this tie into expectations? 

I was a girl, maybe 10 years old. We lived in the country, and on the property was this old piece of farm equipment. Very much dilapidated, derelict, rusty, and to my child's mind, an evil looking contraption of rusted metal bits and torturous possibilities. 

I convinced my brother to tie me to it. 

I can still feel the scratchy twine he used to bind my limbs; the coldness of the metal pressing through my thin clothing. The thrill of feeling helpless and vulnerable. The feelings, not quite sexual, but deep, throbbing, and inexplicable. 

Decades have passed since then, and during those years I've done my best to shove that girl and who she'd become into a tight, dark corner. 

But Balance must be found in all things, and Balance has a way of righting itself. After many years, I find myself giving that girl a voice, dusting her off and encouraging her to feel, think, and explore who she might become.

How many of us have spent a lifetime denying who and what we are? I have. And now Balance has come charging in and is refusing to be denied. I'm left struggling to understand how the woman I've known for nearly decades has changed. I'm stumbling in the dark, trying to find the middle ground between my power-hungry, domineering, intimidating daytime self with the mom, wife, and most importantly, the submissive-craving masochist self who comes out at night. 

Interestingly, by denying my true self, I've also been causing myself harm. My health sucks and I'm on a downward slide to nothing good. Balance - Balance is insidious and worms its way where you least expect it. Without even really knowing it, I'm taking better care of myself. 

Is this the self-care everyone talks about? By accepting my inner self I'm doing this mythical thing called self-care? Hmm. I'll have to think about that. 

I've always hated labels, but here are mine and I'm embracing them:

I am an alpha sub (alpha by day and sub by night and if I were in a group of subs I have NO doubt I'd be top dog so alpha sub for both meanings).

I am a masochist. 

I am a mother, wife, professional. 

I am a juggler of many things and I wear many hats, but I am hiding no longer.

Hear me roar--with your permission, of course, Sir.