Read all about it

The online diary of an ethical pervert.

Monday, 30 April 2012

The words that make you mine

"Tell me what I am, again."

And I do.

It's the words that get him, every time. I swear that with a little more practise, a little more conditioning I could make Ganymede come by lulling him with a litany of filth. Another way that we connect, another way he operates as my mirror. He needs to hear me put him in his place, contextualise him (textualise him) frame those feelings he is experiencing in terms of what he is to me, make that building desire flood out through a stream of consciousness fantasy that is also a reflection of our reality. I talk him to orgasm.

Words bind us. Words define us. They make, take and describe us: literally make copies of ourselves in language. The words we use become our double. And the double up the impact of any sensation we as dominants might wish to create. After all, training is a learning experience and one always follows up the action with the linguistic lesson, you never just tell, you never just do. You show. So as well as what I'm doing, and I'm doing a lot as you may have guessed from the sparse amounts of blogging recently, I'm also putting a lot of work into words. 

We have contractual words. The words that make up our agreement to each other. And words for each other. There are rules for frequency and types of words - I require an email every Monday with what he is up to. There are forbidden words such as Mistress. There are even new words that slip out of our minds and into our tongues and out into the world. Words that neither of us has used in that way for anyone else before. Queen. Feed. Hello. Yes. Words that without context are silly or strange or even - dare I say it? - normal. But to us, for us, they become special. The tone and placement of these words makes them magic, language that is transformative, that flips the switch and says "this place now is a different place". Like putting a collar around his neck, I can do the same with words.  

There's method in my madness. I assure you. But madness in the method. After all, what sane person would want such a thing? What sane person would want me to do such a thing? Yet, he wants it, I want it, we want it. To turn a real, unique and wonderful human being into a toy, a pet, a sexualised automated slave. What I am doing is deep and complicated and a not-very-nice-thing. I'm programming. I'm indoctrinating (again, with the words, to fill with learning). I'm conditioning. And I'm hanging on to the fact that he has consented, that he has offered, that he wants me to do this to him as evidence that I am not entirely cruel or monstrous. 

Partly. Perhaps.

I've yet to really experience that cloud of "dominant guilt" and maybe that's a black mark on my character or maybe my own adventures as a submissive have made me more accepting of suffering in others because I know how much I liked it, needed it, wanted it. There is also another context. What I am doing, although unique to us, is not exactly unique.

Everyone trains everyone else. They just don't always call it that.

The world is full, if you choose to look, and I've looked (oh I've looked!) of all kinds of linguistic experience like this. Training through words, through a re-telling. Of times and places where people have agreed to be reshaped, to be remade. In many instances they have paid for the privilege: think of therapies such as CBT or NLP, or of self-help courses run around retraining your self-image. All kinds of experiences are, in fact, a narrative, with different terminology used to distinguish roles, carve out the insiders from the outsiders, create new ways of looking at the world by renaming. Groups are narratives. Relationships are narratives. A BDSM relationship is a narrative. The distinction is in the kind of story you are telling.

Over coffee with Majeste this weekend she referred to me as Cinderella, in my fairy-tale search for the right one. The collar fitted, I suppose, in the end. But the moment where the metal snaps shut, or the glass slipper slides onto the bare, delicate foot (something I've always found a little chilling, in more ways than one) is exactly the opposite of a Happy Ending. We are at the beginning, and the story has only just started.

In many ways I feel as if this is marking a new phase in my writing. Not only am I writing very much from the top, and with someone who is committed to a long term D/s relationship, but the type of relationship, and the types of experiences we are having are a lot more normalised. Rather than dates or affairs or hotel assignations (wonderful and hedonistic as they were) I have a partner. Not just for an hour or two, or when they have time, or in between other partners. The same has also been true of me, I've been casual with people when perhaps they wanted more. Been less-than when they wanted more. Things have been too hot, too cold and not quite right. Slippers have not fitted.

Instead I have Ganymede. I have a life, or a potential life. One where someone is always my slave. I have a boy who wants me to dominate his thoughts, to own him mind, body and soul. Sometimes the scale of it takes my breath away, because it is epic. I off-handedly referred to D/s as "like love, but harder" to a vanilla friend of mine only later realising that I truly meant it as such. 

Most of this is a very long-winded way of saying that what I'm doing right now is very big, and in many ways very new. Just as Ganymede is new to BDSM I am also new to him, and to the scale of what we are doing to each other, with each other. There's a lot of NRE floating around as well as that crazy, not-real sensation that good, hard D/s does to you anyway. So I'm likely to be updating less frequently. But it's worth it. Trust me.      

1 comment:

Matt G said...

So beautiful. So happy for you.