HER VOICE SPLIT THE silence like a concert master's pure C calling to the orchestra. And, like the instruments tuning to that one note, her statement of being new to the lifestyle but not to submission was discordant before a harmony of understanding and shared feelings settled between us.
Just as the musicians limber their fingers with gentle tunes as they wait, hundreds of words almost spilled from me. Warnings, advice, sensations, excitement from a lifetime of living the one she was just entering.
Like a conductor taking the podium, Dominants strode in her wake. Seeking to entice her, to draw her interest, to make her their own. Harsh and strident, the baton lowered to tap on the easel, their words calling attention to themselves.
As the noise died away from my consciousness, a heavy stillness descended. Waves of emotions crashed over me as Beethoven's Fifth Symphony plummeted me into the memories of what had been.
The first four sibilant notes, masculine, powerful and consuming, riveted me with the same intensity as a Dominant.
* * * * *
"DID HE DO THAT?"
The voice deep and deadly, soft and enthralling. I turned. Riveted suddenly by the compassion in his eyes as they traced the bruises, coupled with the intensity of his rage.
His eyes captured mine, searched my soul, soothing the internal hurts.
"It's not supposed to be that way."
The magnitude of his power thrummed in my soul.
A Dominant.
* * * * *
SOMEHOW I HAD DISCOVERED my need to submit early and had the courage to act upon it. Within months of my realization, I had entered a club which catered to our alternative tastes. So young, so new, they swarmed me immediately. Within an hour, a man had gained control of me. How was I to understand that he was at best an ineffective Dominant and at worse an abuser? He dominated through weakness, punished me with my own nature. After two short months, I was close to denying my submissiveness.
Now, before me sat a Dominant. Enraged at what he recognized as abuse more clearly than I did, he sought to protect and comfort the submissive he saw.
He simply watched me, quietly, gently. There was no outward display of power, no show of force. Instead he was much like an expert animal handler who held out his hand, waiting for the feral creature to come to him.
Step by step, heartbeat by heartbeat, I followed his lead. He listened to my life's story, my hopes and dreams, my fears and hurts. Far better than the most proficient psychologist, he probed and questioned, until my soul was open to him.
* * * * *
I GAZED AT THE card in stupefaction, my hand trembling slightly.
"How did you know?"
"That Monet is your favourite artist?"
"Yes, and this painting in particular."
"It's my job to know these things Cara. To know everything about you."
It was true. He understood me better than I did myself. Where I was given small pieces of information about him when it suited him to do so, he had peeled away each layer of me until my heart was beating for him.
* * * * *
HE SAW THE SMALL stain of blood on my blouse, simply looked at it pointedly. His eyes gentle with compassion, a warmth of tenderness enveloping me as I sat before him. The suppressed fury towards the one who had drawn my blood somehow comforting me.
"I am the mirror, you are the image."
My head tilted as I listened, trying to understand why he was making this statement.
"The more true the mirror, the more exquisite the image will be. You are a reflection of a Dominant. Erotic pain can be uplifting. But damage and carelessness only mar the picture."
* * * * *
MY MISERY IN THE hands of the abuser had increased in direct proportion to the trust and control I surrendered to the Dominant. I was caught in a silken web, slowly being lured into his realm as he tested and judged my submission. Each conversation we had strengthened my confidence in the rightness of my being and the ineffectiveness of the abuser.
I bloomed like a newly born blossom in the sunshine of the Dominant's regard.
The abuser tried to drive me down.
* * * * *
I DIDN'T EVEN LIFT my head as he stood next to me. My shoulders were hunched in defeat, my throat constricted on suppressed tears.
"Tell me."
Almost choking, miserable and afraid, I haltingly whispered an explanation.
"He was livid with me today. I'm used to it, but today was worse. I asked that he not tie the strings on my nipples, told him that they were too bloody. He told me that I wasn't a submissive, that I had no desire to please him, that I was a worthless idiot."
His fingers touched me for the first time, feather light he stroked my cheek, lifted my chin until I met his gaze. Twin tears trailed downwards as his compassionate strength soothed me.
"Listen little one. You are not the one who is flawed, he is. I see before me an exquisite submissive. The gift of your submission is held by someone who doesn't know how to cherish it."
Gentle power flowed into me. The natural desire of a Dominant to protect and comfort a submissive given without reservation.
"I am the artist, you are the image."
My head cocked to the side as I tried to understand.
"You are a beautiful blank pallet, ready to be turned into a masterpiece. An artist, a Dominant, would seek to form and paint until you reached your glory. It is not about driving you down, making you into nothing. It is about enabling you to reach your full potential, despite yourself. To help you overcome fears and lack of motivation. The more spectacular you become, the more pride your Dominant will feel in his ownership."
He paused, waiting for me to absorb his words.
"The flaw does not lie with you. It lies with the one who seeks to control you."
* * * * *
I WAS TRAPPED BY my very nature. Unable to break free from the submission I had given. Even in the face of the awfulness of his newest edict.
I trembled as the Dominant approached me, ignored him, my heart yearning to turn to him for comfort, guidance, advice. Locked between my need to obey the one who held my submission and the tethers of enticement the Dominant had wrapped about me.
"What is wrong? Tell me."
My heart was breaking, I was consumed with fear.
"I'm not allowed to speak with anyone."
"Why?"
"Because I'm untrustworthy."
"Then why bring you to a club?"
It didn't make sense. With concise precision, he sliced through the irrationality of it.
The abuser was suddenly before us. Outraged. At first he tried to overpower the Dominant and was met with such calm strength in the face of his tantrum that it was as if a fully matured man indulged a toddler.
When he turned to inflict his wrath upon me, the Dominant unleashed the intensity of what lurked within. His strength and protection descended like a mantle over me, his ferocity drove the abuser back.
"I will train you if you like. But, before I can, you must ask for your release."
I struggled for the words. The abuser reached for me, prepared to drag me out of the club. Again the Dominant pinned him to the wall with a look.
"Repeat after me . . . I ask you to release me."
His eyes held mine, gave me the strength I needed to mimic his words.
"I ask you to release me."
Once more, the abuser stepped towards me. The Dominant captured his wrist, stayed his hand from the blow he was about to deliver.
"She has asked properly. You need to release her. Even if you are so weak that you refuse, the protocols have been met. She is no longer yours."
As the abuser spun and left, the Dominant's hand traced my arm, quieting and soothing me until I melted into his strength.
"The only thing to fear, little one, is fear itself."
