Rewriting History Ch. 01

We went to a class – "Advanced Fetish". Interesting...was I really that "advanced?" I think it was more that I felt I had a reasonable familiarity with the workings of BDSM, having had a curiosity for years, friends who were in that Lifestyle, and had read everything I could get my perverse, greedy hands upon.

If you asked me, I would tell you that what I enjoyed about being tied up (or tied down) was the sense of safety. I'm very much what's referred to as a 'type A personality' in my everday, professional life; and so, being put into a submissive scene, I felt I could let go of my control, and still feel safe. Very few people who had asked me about it truly understood my feelings on the subject, so even if it came up in conversation, I rarely brought up my interest in the topic.

We listened to the Domme tell stories, answer questions, and raise new ones. Finally, my lover raised his hand and asked, "Do you ever wonder what the motivation is behind the desire for a particular scene?"

A light bulb went off in my head – THIS was the reason he was afraid. Deep down, he was afraid that there was some dark, twisted thing curled up inside of me. Something which, if he indulged it, would come out, teeth bared and drag the 'me' he knew away.

I touched his hand. The Domme answered 'no.' He said that it isn't the Domme's place to know the motivation behind the desire. As long as both parties are consenting, the Domme has expertise enough to accomplish what is being asked of him, and there is no danger of serious damage to the Sub, he follows through.

After the class, we talked and went over my feelings on the subject. In particular, I was interested in what the Domme had said about using BDSM as a means of "rewriting history." That is, taking a previously traumatic situation and re-creating it – or at least, in the Sub's mind – and replacing it with a new memory....one that empowers the person rather than shames them.

This – THIS is what I had been searching for, but did not realize it was what I'd wanted.

That night, we entered the room, dimly lit with candles. To the right, a massage table on which various women were lying down to have warm wax painted onto their backs and then peeled off....with a knife. In the center of the room, a cross with arms, which had slats like a staircase, and a bench behind it. Off in the darker corner to the right, a large X-shaped cross, to which a woman we'd met earlier in the day was being tied. Chairs were scattered around the room as individuals and couples sat back and vicariously took in the torture of others.

As I walked toward friends of ours, a man sitting near me brushed my thigh and looked me in the eyes. "Hello," he said.

"Oh, hello," I replied, smiling a bit nervously.

"Are you going to play tonight?" he asked me.

"Maybe," I said, wondering if he was wanting to watch me.

"My name is Daniel," he said. "If you need any assistance, please let me know," he offered, and kissed the back of my right hand.

"I would enjoy that," I said, my heart beating a bit faster.

"I must warn you," he said with a wicked glint in his eye, "I'm a mean, naughty man."

"I knew there was something I liked about you," I laughed and slid past him to go toward my lover.

A friend of ours hugged me hello and asked me if I'd thought about getting 'into the sawhorse.' He pointed to an object that had been tucked away from view when we first entered – it was a wooden sawhorse that had been padded and covered with leather. There were small box-like structures for a person's forearms and shins to rest in, and be strapped down.

"Sure, why not," I laughed. "Let's see how comfortable it is."

I climbed onto it in an all-fours position, and mark strapped each of my limbs in with two buckled straps for each. I had to readjust my body to find a comfortable place for my sternum to rest, but it really was quite comfortable.

I heard my lover say something quietly behind me, and felt the cold, feathery tips of a rubber-like cat of many tails trail across my back. "Maybe I'll whip you a little while you're in there," he said. I turned my head back toward him and smiled.

He started to move the whip gently in a figure-8 pattern I'd taught him long ago. It was something I'd learned from a fetish-friend in college. The touch of it was noticeable, but not painful. He got more forceful, but didn't have a lot of control over it – and ended up smacking my labia rather painfully a couple of times. Each time, I would jump and exclaim "Ouch!" and he would apologize.

A few moments later, the man who had introduced himself when I came in leaned over my shoulder and said, "Do you mind if I play a little?"

"Not at all," I replied in a way I hoped sounded nonchalant.

Suddenly, I was blinded by a series of 'thwacks' from the whip in his hand. It only lasted about five or six seconds, but I cried out for him to stop.

He leaned over me again and said "Oh dear, I haven't even gotten started yet."

"I know," I replied panting a bit; "But I think that YOU think I'm more experienced than I am."

"Ahhhhh," he said, nodding. "Would you like to try some stings instead of whacks?"

"Sure," I said, hoping that they would be less intense.

My hope was fruitless. When the whip hit me the first time, it seared the skin on my left buttock, and made me gasp, "STOP!" It felt like a branding iron was burning my skin, and I moved my hips, hoping he would touch it, smooth it out – but he made no move to do so.

Instead, he leaned down, looked at me and said, "I think I'm done playing for now," and kissed the top of my head.

A bit shocked, all I could offer in return was a mumbled, "Ok," although I think I may have also thanked him.

I felt ashamed. I felt rejected. I felt that whatever I had done, it was the wrong thing, and assumed at that point, that I just was not cut out for this thing that I'd so hoped would help. Rather than feeling empowered, I struggled against my mental bonds far more than those that held me to the sawhorse.

And what Daniel didn't know – couldn't know – was that all those years ago, nearly 20 years now, another man - the man who had raped me, had also kissed me on the top of my head and told me he had to leave.

The very thing I was seeking to re-write had somehow happened again.

(to be continued...)