Crumpled Papers

Author: D.S. Gray © 1999

This article is copyrighted to the stated author(s) and can not be reproduced, copied, reprinted, or posted without the consent of the author. It is used here with permission of the author.



One day, I opened my mail and found a letter from an old friend. In it, she asked if I would write a story for her about domination because, as a submissive, she wanted to know what the other side of the coin was like and how it differed from her station. Smugly, I began to weave a sordid tale, much like the ones I have written before and then, part way through, I realized this wasn't what she wanted. I began again and by the afternoon found that I had succeeded in filling the garbage can three times. Nothing was working; nothing and I couldn't make it work. In frustration, I admitted defeat and turned to rewrites in an effort to erase my failure.

And, in the evening, I dutifully delivered the trash and my hopes to the edge of the road for removal the following morning. When I went down the drive the next day, the cans were empty and as I carried them back to the house, so was I.

By the third day, I gave up, quit, walked away from it and wrote to her, apologizing for my shortcomings and hoping that she could find the answer she sought somewhere else. A week later, while I was away from the house, she called and left a message that was only two words long, "Thank you." Two words, but from the tone, the softness I knew she had found something in my letter that had satisfied her. I went back to my files, dug the letter out and read it again, hoping to discover what she had. I could not, nor can I now, but I will let you judge whether there is anything of worth hidden in the words. Oh yes, she knows I am opening it to others, it was her choice.

Dearest Honor,
I have tried to do as you asked and could not. In frustration, I began to search for a reason, any reason that would explain it for both of us and if you will permit, I will share these with you in the hope that you can discover the reason for my failure. You do not know this, but I have been in and out of the "life" for over twenty years. I still have problems adjusting to the "correct" terms, the "correct" spelling, the "correct" way that people expect others to behave, so if I slip up here, bear with me. When I first started, there was a certain ceremony but we were not lumbered with ritual as we are now and as you well know, I do not accept rules well.

I was in my early twenties when I was first inducted into the practices of a very special lady. She chose me and trained me to be her Dom for good reason. She was older than I by some ten years and, being from Europe, more comfortable with her needs and desires. She had one great flaw, she had no boundaries, none and it was for this reason she trained her Dom. Today, she would be called extreme, but at the time I had no way to know this, but then so much back then would seem extreme today and it was. We met through work; she was a money trader and in my position I had to buy various currencies in order to make the proper settlement overseas. One evening, we met at one of those dreary 'Your attendance is required' things. We got on well and part way through the evening, she suggested that we escape and have a drink at her place. She had seen something in me, heard something in my speech that she wanted to explore further and more privately.

At the time, I saw nothing nefarious in her invitation, she was beautiful, intelligent and not a total stranger so off we went. Much latter, she told me what she had discovered and it lead to a revelation of why I was the way I was. For years, even in childhood, I could not understand why some people were drawn to me and others were repulsed even afraid by my presence. In business, and in relationships, I had found that I was a very good manipulator. I was not always comfortable with this and avoided the use of what she came to refer to as my 'power'. I still do, for good reason and this will become evident as I wander on. In short, our discussion that night, her books, her knowledge began to seep into my thick skull and things began to form in a loose order. One of the keys to her choosing me was that I had the ability to control my own reactions, my own feelings and my own responses in a given situation.

We began spending more time together, I learned from her and her stories; her instruction was my first introduction to unlimited power. This is a heavy responsibility at best, but for a twenty something kid it was heady stuff. I fell in love with her and the ideas she was putting forward. As her trust grew, and my confidence grew too, we edged toward what would now be called a "scene". We agreed on a night, a Friday night, so that we would have the rest of the weekend without interruption. I arrived at the appointed time and found her wearing only her compulsory high heels and a black silk robe. She took my hand and it was then that I saw the leather cuffs she wore. She had shown me photographs of equipment, explained the various uses, but this was the first time I saw and touched the real article.

They were, like her, beautifully made from red and black kid leather. They were four inches long and constructed from many layers of fine kid leather. The scent was delicious and the three buckles, which held each cuff tightly in place, were real silver as was the large ring anchored within the layers of leather. They had been made in Europe by an old saddle maker and were a gift from her Uncle. I felt a tingle in my heart looking at them, touched them and accompanied her to the archway that separated the living room from the dinning room. She dropped her robe, reached up and grasped two hooks that had been set into the narrow jam. I put my arm around her waist and raised her so that she could drop the rings over the hooks. Then I set her down so that her feet rested on the floor. Even wearing the heels, I could see the strain in her arms, her shoulders, the tension in her buttocks and legs, but it was nothing compared to what I saw when she kicked off her shoes. Dangling there, her toes just brushing the carpet she told me to pick up the whip. I had held this weapon several times, swung it under her steady gaze and had a feel for it, but not for what it could and would do. Seeing her, hanging there, with the whip in my, I felt the first real surge of power start in my hand. Slowly it moved up through each muscle, to the shoulder and then across my chest to settle in my heart. I struck her, hard, saw her dance and heard her say, "Again". The dark red mark across her buttocks seemed too distant to be of my making, but the second time I saw the rod hit, bury itself and then spring back, recoiling from the force. The cycle was repeated and with each cut, my arm grew in size, in strength until it seemed three times its normal size. My nostrils flared, I smelled her excitement for the first time and watched it wet the insides of her thighs. This was how she found release, it was her only means, her only way and though she would love me through the night her only pleasure came from the whip. I heard her gasp, cry out and then she hung like a rag doll in her cuffs. I dropped the whip, grabbed her and hoisted her free. She was still shaking an hour later as I sat beside on the bed. The sheets were wet with her tears; her sweat, her liquid arousal and I licked each stripe, kissed it and wished for it to go away. It was she who comforted me, who caressed me and loved me that night and on the next when we repeated the same thing once again.

Gradually, I grew accustomed to my new role and to sweet taste of total, absolute power. I craved it; lusted after it as much if not more than I lusted after my lover's body and she took me further afield. I was so cocky, so arrogant when she took to some of the darker places she had discovered in the city. She fed my desires and so satisfied her own. How, ignorant I was, how stupid, how thoughtless, but power corrupts in such an absolute way and when it is mixed with the haughtiness of youth a monster stalks the earth. And I have seen monsters, the same as I was. The details of my fall are not important, it is enough to say we witnessed something that went very bad one night and as we left the room, we passed by the figure that would never move again.

Everything began to unravel and within the month I left the city and the life and her far behind. A year latter, I heard from her; we wrote, for a time, she had returned to Europe and then one day the letters stopped. Mine came back unopened and I knew that in her dark need she had chosen poorly. I put all this away and sank into the comfort of work, denied what was and is part of me. I rejected it, repressed it and did my best to adjust to a "normal" life with "normal" relationships. It didn't work, because in each one, some critical part was missing, some part of me. Occasionally, it would peak out from its sealed container and I would feel the same old rush, thrill and be afraid of what would happen. Most days I could ignore it and my partner at the time would have no inkling that her lover was a monster, but it was still there demanding recognition. I withdrew then, hid from relationships and tried to find the truth of who and what I was.

I took nearly five years, five long years much of the time spent alone and for good reason. Then one day, some three years ago, I look in the mirror and accepted that I was a monster and all the chains fell away. I began to write to let the monster free and let it wander freely over the paper its inky trials behind. Now, with the acceptance of what I was, I had found the means to control it, control the power that was mine and that would again be given me by others. I began again and found the first clue. I discovered, that is was not the power so much that fascinated me, but the actual harnessing of it and its wise use that gave me the rush and my partner her satisfaction. As I pealed away the layers of doubt, fear and uncertainty, I read the rules that govern this process.

There are so many rules, books of them, shelves of them, libraries of them, but I hate rules and so I came to what I call my four. It was a process of distillation, taking things that I agreed with, discarding those I found no comfort in or to me were areas where I could no longer go because of the past. The long lists grew shorter as I found how things fit together for me. My walk changed, my appearance too until I hardly recognized the person whom I met each morning in the mirror. My real friends saw the change and, for the most part, accepted what I was when I told them, though many were uncomfortable with it until they found I would not force my life on them. I could not and will not because that would contradict everything I now believe in. Four simple words, only four and under these all things may be addressed. You know them, I have spoken them before and now will put them down for you so that you will have them for all time: Communication, Respect, Responsibility and Safety. These I apply to all aspects of my life, they are mine and mine alone yet, and they make more than a little sense to many others. Certainly, they are laughed at too, but then I think that the ones who laugh have not seen what I have or fought my war or have to live with my failures. Those who laugh still have my respect because the choices they make are theirs, but there are times when I shudder at the stories, fear for those involved and wonder how many monsters lurk in the shadows -undiscovered.

I wish that I could have given you a good story, one that you could enjoy, but my darling, my lovely Honor, you will have to settle for one that is real.

With respect and sorrow that I could not fulfill your simple request,

David (sadique)





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