When I was young, about fourteen years old or so, I began to notice the young boys in the school years above me. It started off innocently enough, but then a chance encounter with one lovely young man ruined me completely.
“I’ll work with you”, Carl said. I was sat alone on a chair at an after-school drama class. I was there because I’d been made to be there by my parents and because my brother was there, but I had absolutely no desire to be there of my own accord. None. Nada.
When I looked up, Carl was the Adonis man of my dreams. He had a slight, muscular build, a slight tan, deep brown eyes and short, mousey brown hair. He had a cheeky grin that lit up the room and he wore a white half-buttoned shirt with black trousers. He even smelled clean and of aftershave; a good, clean, nice, decent aftershave. Damn him.
I liked to imagine a lot about what Carl would be like after school. In school, he was nice and friendly but after class, maybe he would tie me up and manhandle me. There was a woods opposite my school, so maybe he and some fellow Year 11’s would take me there and all take turns using and abusing me. Oh, if only.
Over time, the one thing that never changed was the need or desire to be tied up. I wanted to be helpless, I wanted to be unable to resist or to say no. I wanted to lose control.
When I learned about sex, I learned about the importance of consent. I learned about how women like to be handled gently and how I had a right to say no at any time. I learned that I should only have sex when I wanted to.
There was just one, teeny, tiny problem. I didn’t want sex to be like some negotiated deal, I wanted sex to be hot and hard. I wanted him to take control and claim me. I wanted him to show me that he needed me, now.
And for a long time, I was deeply ashamed.
For a long time, any time a guy made a move towards me, I was dismissive of him. I didn’t want to have sex, I wanted…. what did I want, exactly?
I wasn’t sure.
The first time I had sex, I was, honestly, kind of bored. It felt okay, nice even, but dull. There wasn’t that je ne sais quoi that I wanted, that I needed. He was nice with me, gentle with me, and I didn’t want him to be.
I wanted him to bite me, scratch me, grab me.
Take control of me.
I firmly believe that one of the contributing factors for this appeal stems from my childhood. When I was young, my mother told me that I would struggle to find love because of my disabilities. Even if it was only a passing comment, it’s stayed with me and scarred me for life. For me, I immediately felt and became unlovable, undesirable, destined to live and die alone. For me, being scratched and bitten was a symbol of need and desire. If I was bitten and scratched, then I was wanted, needed and desired.
For a long time, I was perplexed by it all. How and why did someone like me like and crave this so much? A respectful, decent, moral woman, who holds respect, consent and human decency with highest regard? It made no sense.
Moreover, I was adamant that I didn’t want to be controlled. Not completely. Did I?
Even now, I still don’t completely have the answers, but I do know that probably no, being completely controlled would make me flee. The idea of someone knowing what I do and controlling every living moment of my life does nothing for me. It might be erotic for an hour or two, or in some twisted fantasy, but the reality would be anything but.
So it requires consent.
One of the biggest things for me, as part of my submission, was autonomy. I wanted and needed the right to be able to think and act for myself, rather than sometimes (okay usually) for the benefit of the relationship. I wanted to decide, rather than have him decide what was best. I wanted to still feel like I was human, and for me, one of the greatest things that Wolfie did was to allow me this. He allowed me to be a human, a capable and thinking human, free to make my own decisions. From about 14 years old, in one way or another I have always been in control. I grew up with a disabled father and was a palliative carer for my grandfather then a carer for my granmother, who developed Alzheimer’s disease soon after my grandfather’s passing. Even now, I run the home, I run two blogs and I am a dog mom, so in one way or another, control has always been part of what I do and I needed someone who understood that sometimes, I have to act in the moment and there may not be time to ask for permission. My husband understood and respected that completely, and doing so earned him my trust and respect, which is kind of key in any relationship.
As a red blooded woman, one of my other fears was losing the right to pleasure myself as and when I wanted to. I was determined that whoever controlled me would not take control of my pleasure, that was mine to have and enjoy when I wanted to, and to share with whoever I desired (within the relationship!). For a long time, many of the Dominants that I met would argue that I could never truly be submissive with my ‘attitude’, and some even tried to change me (to no avail!). When I met a man who’s only prerequisite was that I didn’t take care of myself if he was around, or would be around soon, then I was settled. He gave me no reason to fear, nothing to run from.
As a last requirement, I also needed someone fun, who understood humour and perhaps even had a sense of humour themselves. I am, even by our own admission, from ‘a family of idiots’. If I lost my sense of humour, I sort of lost part of my genetic make-up. If I lost my sense of humour, then I’d sort of stop being me. Even if I wanted to lose control occasionally, I was terrified of not being me. Instead of crushing out my sense of humour, Wolfie embraced it in me. He told me that he loved the challenge, that my quick wit and tenacity are what make me, me. In a nutshell, he loved me.
He gave me a reason to trust. He gave me someone that I could trust in. He gave me someone who cared for me, who loved me, who accepted me. He loved me for who I am and cherished me unconditionally.
And that, was how I became His.