Kinky Dungeon

“Liberation” isn’t the right word

Choke. Chuck Palahniuk. I read it when I was 26. I was then happy enough in a new-ish relationship, most of me blissfully ignorant of the changes to come withing me. “Choke” left its mark. Not unusual for Chuck Palahniuk, it’s kind of his thing to leave marks behind. For the life of me I am not able to tell you what exactly the mark was, I utterly failed to pinpoint it myself. “Choke” latched onto something deep inside me, but so subtly that I had no idea at the time, but I can still feel its vibration through me. I think it is only fitting to pay homage to “Choke”, one of my favorite books, as I tell my tale. If BDSM is a mutation, this would be my origin story.

“Because nothing is as perfect as you can imagine it.”

My prince charming, picture courtesy of The Writers cafe

Ever since I was a little girl, I was already hyper aware of my sexuality. I started young, as I’ve heard that people like me tend to, experimenting and masturbating. Like really really young. I don’t remember the exact age, but I recall being ridiculously happy when my breasts started to grow in early teenage, because finally I had something new to play with. So yes, that young. Like all little girls, I had an imagination any fiction author would envy. But instead of princess stories or details to my wedding to a prince or my future kids’ names, I crafted these elaborate, complex epic fantasies about my sexual exploits. But I did have a prince charming, except that he wasn’t that charming. “Villainous” isn’t the right word, but it’s the first word that comes to mind. 

So by the time I was fifteen, I had done it all in my head a thousand times. It was time to make all my fantasies come true. I was more than proud that I didn’t give up my virginity to any random guy, I gifted it to someone my teenage brains were absolutely positive I was in love with. Well, I wasn’t, but try telling that to the 15-year-old me who was like every other teenage girl in the world: we blew everything out of proportion. So a guy around my age, with whom I thought I was in love with, perfect! I wasn’t a least bit scared of the ordeal in front of me. I wasn’t scared it would hurt the first time, I was scared it wouldn’t be as good as I had imagined it to be. I was actually slightly disappointed that it didn’t hurt more than it did, and of course it wasn’t as good as I imagined. Not many things in life are. But sex was still something new back then, it was good and fun enough to last me a really long time. I was hopelessly addicted. And I liked it hard and rough right from the beginning, but still very much vanilla. It was never quite enough though, but I had no idea why not. So I just kept having more and more. “Insatiable” isn’t the right word, but it’s the first word that comes to mind.

“The point was, it’s not the sex part of pornography that hooked the stupid little boy.
It was the confidence. The courage. The complete lack of shame…”

Picture courtesy of Hetedik küszöb fotóblog


Let me just say one thing, thank Gods for Internet porn! I could practically re-enact those few porno movies my parents used to hide in the closet, I watched them so many times! It is a peculiar thing in retrospect now, how I never felt guilt or shame about masturbating or sneakily watching the videos over and over again. It never felt wrong to me. Why would I? The porn stars in those movies always looked so confident and seemed like they were having a really good time. I have no idea how much or little porn an average woman consume, but I probably am safe to say that I am way above average. When Internet porn made it really easy to search for what I liked to watch, I dusted out those childhood fantasies and went on a mission to hunt porno movies and clips so I could witness my fantasies come to live on screen. I didn’t find what I was looking for. I found something that remotely resembled my fantasies, but my discovery disturbed me to my very core: rape porn. Let me make one thing straight, you will have to look really hard to find another person who is more against rape than I am. The fact that my discovery was what it was, first time in my life I felt guilt over my sexual desires, I was utterly ashamed of myself for wanting to watch something like that. But I couldn’t look away. I couldn’t explain to myself back then why I would get turned on by such a disgusting thing. I wish I could go back in time now, and tell my younger self that it wasn’t the awful act of rape that turned me on, it was the act of dominance over another person. The reason why it felt dirty and wrong was that rape wasn’t consensual. But I knew it was a movie and not real, that was the only reason I kept watching them. I wanted and needed something but I had no idea what. “Yearning” isn’t the right word, but it’s the first word that comes to mind.

No matter what you say about the Twilight saga, it was the turning point in my life. I wrote about my sparkly journey back at the end of 2012 in my old blog, check it out if you want. I thought back then that my journey kind of ended. Little did I know that the downhill just began. Anyway, it all began from Twilight and the ridiculous amount of sexual frustration it created that the level of my hornyness wasn’t even funny anymore. That frustration drove me to read an outrageous load of Twilight fanfiction, and among it all I read this little story called “The Submissive“. It had now become a real novel of the same name by Tara Sue Me. It should have been the Fifty Shades of Grey, The Submissive would have deserved the rave and it would have been a more accurate portrait of the BDSM world. Tara Sue Me was my savior. Her story woke me up like a warm summer breeze on a lavender field, gently and in a most welcome way. I can’t even begin to describe the relief and gratitude I felt when I finally found a word for what I have been looking for all my life, at last I had a word for what I am, and I simply couldn’t even imagine or wish for a more beautiful word: submissive. “Liberation” isn’t the right word, but it’s the first word that comes to mind.

“We can spend our lives letting the world tell us who we are.
Sane or insane. Saints or sex addicts. Heroes or victims.
Letting history tell us how good or bad we are.
Letting our past decide our future.
Or we can decide for ourselves.”

I try to live my life without regrets, and I really don’t regret getting into a long relationship with my now ex-fiance nearly right after my awakening. I just wish I could have given myself a little more space to discover myself fully, and a little more time to ponder what it meant to me to be a submissive. But I was madly in love, and he was everything I thought I wanted. I just didn’t know back then that he might have been what I wanted, but he wasn’t what I needed. The first few years, it was easy enough to ignore my inner voice which was trying to tell me that being with a strictly vanilla guy was a big mistake. I was, without me knowing or trying, naturally submissive sexually. I’m not sure had I always been like that but my ex was the first one to question my sexual… I guess you can say habits. He mistook my submissive side as laziness or that I wasn’t really that into him sexually. He was partially correct, I was into him, but not quite into the vanilla sex part. He wanted me to take initiative, he wanted me to constantly tell him, even during sex about what I wanted from him. And I didn’t have the words to explain back then that all I really wanted was for him to tell me what to do. I wanted whatever he wanted me to do. I wanted, needed to please, to serve, to submit. That me giving orders turned me off immensely. During all that vanilla sex, I was never really turned on enough, most of the time I couldn’t even get wet enough for intercourse without lubrication, and I had a really hard time to relax, and needless to say my orgasms were always the fruit of really hard work. I was so convinced that I was broken and couldn’t be cured. I didn’t know back then that all the struggle was because I was a submissive without a Dominant. “Disheartened” isn’t the right word, but it’s the first word that comes to mind.

Picture courtesy of

Roughly two years ago, I started to show visible signs of discomfort in my own skin. I had no idea what was wrong with me, and I kept telling my ex-fiance that everything was okay, that I would try to be honest and share my feelings with him. I told him that same lie over and over again. I didn’t mean to lie. I wasn’t aware I was lying. Because I was lying to myself too. I didn’t know why I was not okay. I didn’t know I was suffocating. And because I loved him, I told myself to suck it up. But the submissive in me was forcing herself out. And I refused to recognize her, because of that I became more and more withdrawn and miserable. The misery went on for two years, no amount of long talks or fights could make me talk, I simply closed up and stayed in denial. My ex-fiance finally had enough. I couldn’t blame him. With a less than subtle manner he forced me to face the truth: and the truth was I wasn’t happy with him. However miserable, it felt safe to be in denial. So I put up quite a fight, and for a little while all I wanted was to have him back. I was terrified of being left alone, alone with myself when I didn’t even know who I was really. It’s like being left with a stranger. I was completely broken down. In my lowest point, lower than I’ve ever been, a little voice whispered a reminder to me. It reminded me that this is my chance now to discover what I truly need and what being me really means. “Freedom” isn’t the right word, but it’s the first word that comes to mind. 

“How torture is torture and humiliation is humiliation only when you choose to suffer.”

Picture courtesy of
Picture courtesy of

After that reminder, I got the most needed strength to build myself up again.     Mostly I needed to prove to myself that this submissiveness is not just something in my head, I needed to experience it. The first time I submitted physically, I found out that all I needed to get turned on was pain, I found pleasure beyond my wildest imagination. The first time I submitted physically and mentally, I found true peace. Many describe BDSM as addiction, and I guess in some degree it is. It’s like an itch that I can’t scratch myself. I constantly miss the heat and bruises on my behind from a bare-hand spanking. I crave for belt whippings like my lungs crave oxygen. I ache to get to say “Yes, Sir” and I can’t get enough of hearing “good girl”. In submission is when I feel I’m most natural. I now know exactly what I need and want, I just need to find it. I acknowledge that me being submissive would make finding ‘the one’ that much harder. But all I ever wanted, and I’ve known this since I was a little girl, was to find someone who would claim me as his property, someone who would tell me “You are mine”. “Love” isn’t the right word, but it’s the first word that comes to mind.


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