I was once a slave

I used to be a slave. For a few years, I proudly wore the title, devoted myself entirely to the pleasure of another. I was relatively new to the lifestyle when it all started, and not particularly well educated in such matters. I felt the rush, the whirlwind of subfrenzy, but didn’t understand what I was giving up to go to those places. The master that I had trained me, molded me to be what he wanted me to be. There was never really a conversation about my own goals, needs, wants. I breathed the air he exhaled, sometimes quite literally. I made new friends, moved to a new city, changed my college career path. I became isolated from the family and friends that I once knew. Some of that was my own doing. I didn’t recognize the truth in what was happening until years later. I thought it was normal to not have a safe word. I thought it was normal to have someone thinking for me at every turn.

In the last several years of my marriage, I felt like a slave in several ways, and not many of them are positive. I offered service constantly, devoted myself to the dreams and ambitions of my husband, and once again put my needs and dreams on the backburner. It was my choice for a long time. But somewhere in the process, I began to recognize that I wasn’t getting back the energy I was putting into things. I wanted my submission to be seen, recognized for what it was and cherished. What I got instead was my dominant questioning what he got out of our dynamic. And it broke my heart.

I was talking to my bestie the other day. She’s a slave in a 24/7 dynamic and I…