Forced to be Dominant.
My Kindle lies neglected under my pillow. She is forlorn, unloved, unused.
“I’ve been busy,” I protest, “working, buying a house, getting divorced.” But she is full of disdain, as any spurned lover might be. It’s an excuse, of course. I have neglected her because I don’t know how to handle her and when I do hold her in my hands she regales me with stories of discipline and the exquisite agony of being loved by a dominant, caring, spiteful, considerate partner.
“Really,” I ask, “are these sentiments not exclusive? Can you be all of these things at the same time?” She deigns to answer and I still don’t know.
I have had many lovers but never have I wanted to dominate or be dominated. I thought love was about sharing; balance. Perhaps it is, but the scales don’t have to be equal and one person’s submission of responsibility could be balanced by another person’s assumption of it. Is this the essence of Fifty Shades? Was the trilogy such a phenomenon because it opened up a hidden world of opportunity, or did it simply reflect a growing practice of dominant love?
Only once have I had such a relationship and our love ultimately failed because I did not understand her needs, did not appreciate that she wanted to go well beyond the limits I thought we had already surpassed. We went for a nocturnal swim one night on holiday and, hidden in the dark water of the pool, I removed her bikini, expecting to be chastised but simultaneously indulged as we played together, just out of sight of the late night drinkers who were sat on the terrace. It was not until we grew cold that I began to glimpse behind the veil.
“We should get out,” I said. She nodded and silently climbed the steps to emerge shining wet and naked into the glare of the flickering torchlight which caressed her form in mimicry of the hands that the rowdy drinkers wanted to run over her in exploratory exultation. She walked past them with such a submissive demeanour that she dominated them in to silence. They looked to me as she followed me obediently to our chalet. I had not expected this display of capitulation, and had not particularly wanted it, but I realise now that she did.
Later in our relationship, she suggested we attend a fancy dress party. We had been to a formal dinner the night before and I had nothing to wear to a casual party.
“Wear your dinner jacket with an open necked shirt,” she said, “you’ll look like my pimp.”
“What will you wear?” I asked.
“I’ll go like this,” she said, standing before me in stockings and basque. “And you can fasten this around my neck.” She held out a velvet collar with a leather leash attached. I could not accept the responsibility she wanted me to take. I could not lead my lover around by a collar. I could not dominate her as she wanted and, somehow, because I did not want to demean her, I sense that is exactly what I did.
She is gone now, long ago, and there is only my Kindle Lover left. Her silent challenge haunts me: Chloe, Elizabeth and the others, all wanting to dominate me with their submissive taunts.
“I’ve been busy,” I protest, “working, buying a house, getting divorced.” But she is full of disdain, as any spurned lover might be. It’s an excuse, of course. I have neglected her because I don’t know how to handle her and when I do hold her in my hands she regales me with stories of discipline and the exquisite agony of being loved by a dominant, caring, spiteful, considerate partner.
“Really,” I ask, “are these sentiments not exclusive? Can you be all of these things at the same time?” She deigns to answer and I still don’t know.
I have had many lovers but never have I wanted to dominate or be dominated. I thought love was about sharing; balance. Perhaps it is, but the scales don’t have to be equal and one person’s submission of responsibility could be balanced by another person’s assumption of it. Is this the essence of Fifty Shades? Was the trilogy such a phenomenon because it opened up a hidden world of opportunity, or did it simply reflect a growing practice of dominant love?
Only once have I had such a relationship and our love ultimately failed because I did not understand her needs, did not appreciate that she wanted to go well beyond the limits I thought we had already surpassed. We went for a nocturnal swim one night on holiday and, hidden in the dark water of the pool, I removed her bikini, expecting to be chastised but simultaneously indulged as we played together, just out of sight of the late night drinkers who were sat on the terrace. It was not until we grew cold that I began to glimpse behind the veil.
“We should get out,” I said. She nodded and silently climbed the steps to emerge shining wet and naked into the glare of the flickering torchlight which caressed her form in mimicry of the hands that the rowdy drinkers wanted to run over her in exploratory exultation. She walked past them with such a submissive demeanour that she dominated them in to silence. They looked to me as she followed me obediently to our chalet. I had not expected this display of capitulation, and had not particularly wanted it, but I realise now that she did.
Later in our relationship, she suggested we attend a fancy dress party. We had been to a formal dinner the night before and I had nothing to wear to a casual party.
“Wear your dinner jacket with an open necked shirt,” she said, “you’ll look like my pimp.”
“What will you wear?” I asked.
“I’ll go like this,” she said, standing before me in stockings and basque. “And you can fasten this around my neck.” She held out a velvet collar with a leather leash attached. I could not accept the responsibility she wanted me to take. I could not lead my lover around by a collar. I could not dominate her as she wanted and, somehow, because I did not want to demean her, I sense that is exactly what I did.
She is gone now, long ago, and there is only my Kindle Lover left. Her silent challenge haunts me: Chloe, Elizabeth and the others, all wanting to dominate me with their submissive taunts.
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